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Here & There & Everywhere 

REMINISCENCES 
M. E. W. SHERWOOD 



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HERBERT S. STONE & COMPANY 

CHICAGO & NEW YORK 

MDCCCXCVIII 



1st COPY, 
1893. 




I 



COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY 
HERBERT S. STONE & CO. 



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Iff » 



THIS EDITION IS COPYRIGHT IN THE 
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, AND TS 
NOT TO BE IMPORTED INTO COUNTRIES 
SIGNATORY TO THE BERNE TREATY 



I DEDICATE THIS BOOK 

TO 

FOUR DELIGHTFUL CRITICS, ARTHUR MURRAY, CYNTHIA, 

PHILIP HYDE 

AND ROBERT EMMET SHERWOOD 

THE GEMS OF MY LAST DECADE, WHO ALWAYS CONDESCEND 

TO BE PLEASED 

WITH THE TALES OF A GRANDMOTHER 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ITALY AND VICTOR EMMANUEL I 

SOCIAL AND OTHER MEMORIES OF ROME IO 
MEMORIES OF NORTHERN ITALY AND THE ITALIAN LAKES 23 

VENICE AND EUGENIE, EMPRESS OF THE FRENCH 35 

ORLEANS AND TURIN 57 

LEGENDS OF AIX AND MIOLAN 66 

PALACES KINGS HAVE BUILT IN BAVARIA 78 

OBER-AMMERGAU 87 

FEUDAL CHATEAUX ON THE LOIRE IIO 
TAINE, ANDRE THEURIET, MME. ADAM, AND SOME OTHERS T20 

BERNHARDT, COQUELIN, AND OTHERS 1 32 

COQUELIN AND SOME OTHERS, AGAIN 142 

SEVERAL SEASONS AT AL£-LES-BAINS 1 54 

LORD HOUGHTON AND d'aUMALE 1 73 

MATLOCK BATHS AND NEIGHBORHOODS 1 83 

MEMORIES OF HOLLAND HOUSE I90 

HOLLAND HOUSE AGAIN 1 99 

ENGLAND IN SPRING 209 

GENERAL DE TROBRIAND'S ROMANTIC LIFE 22 1 

GENERAL SCOTT AND WEST POINT 231 

REMINISCENCES OF N. P. WILLIS 239 

IRVING AND HIS HUDSON RIVER HOME AT SUNNYSIDE 249 

DINNERS WITH GEORGE BANCROFT 262 

FLOTSAM AND JETSAM 270 

THE DECADENCE OF THE AMERICAN WATERING-PLACE 28 1 

BOOKS THAT SOCIETY READS f 289 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

MRS. SHERWOOD, FROM A MINIATURE frontispiece 

\ GARIBALDI, FROM A PHOTOGRAPH 24 

EMPRESS EUGENIE IN 1 869 42 

EMPRESS EUGENIE AND THE PRINCE IMPERIAL 52 

GEORGE P. MARSH IN 1 864 62 

PRINCESS MARGUERITE OF SAVOY 74 

PRINCE NAPOLEON IIO 

PRINCE NAPOLEON IN 1 869 Il8 

J PRINCESS MARGUERITE, NOW QUEEN OF ITALY 1 64 

GEORGE BANCROFT 266 

MRS. SHERWOOD, FROM A PAINTING BY JANE STUART 276 



Italy and Victor Emmanuel 

Looking in a volume of forgotten photographs, I 
found one of the lovely Queen of Italy when she was 
seventeen, with her young autograph, and that of Gari- 
baldi near her, " given to his friend Avezanna." 
This carried me back to my first visit to Florence, 
in 1869, when the young royal couple had been first 
married — Umberto and Marguerite. It was a notable 
Summer for me, for I first saw Venice in that October 
with the Empress Eugenie on her way to open the Suez 
Canal, and made my first acquaintance with Italy — a 
delightful experience which has been constantly refreshed 
by visits to her richly freighted cities. 

The novel of "Marietta, " by T. Adolphus Trollope, 
gives one the best idea of Florence that can be gained 
from books. Florence changes from year to year less 
than any foreign city, except that it has become almost 
an American watering-place. It has always its Cascine, 
its two great galleries, its gardens, and its memories, 
its palaces, and its Romola, for that wonderful book 
has filled it with the images of the past, and the flitting 
travelers come and go. But Tito and Romola and all 
that immortal company live there forever. 

We drew up to the top of the Hill of Bellosguardo, 
with Mr. Marsh, to look at the view of the Val d'Arno. 
I am sorry for every one who did not go there with him, 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

for he knew every inch of that memory-freighted ground, 
and with his all-powerful ambassadorial or ministerial 
power he opened for us the Villa di San Donato, the 
property of Prince Demidoff. This magnificent place 
contained then one of the choicest collections in Europe, 
now sold and scattered. Also the Villa di Quarto, part 
of the ancient patrimony of the Medici, we saw with 
him. 

And we went to the Villa Salviati, partly to see the 
great house of the sixteenth century, but more to see 
Mario, the famous singer, but we did not see him. He 
owned that villa once and lived there in 1869. 

And, oh, Fiesole! nothing is more lovely than that 
winding road (as familar to Americans doubtless as Fifth 
Avenue), but with Mr. Marsh it revealed a thousand 
ambushes of history. 

It would take two lifetimes and a long immortality 
properly to see Florence. I should say even to read 
Hallam's tribute to it incumbers the brain. ''The vast 
dome of the Cathedral, the Baptistery, with gates 
worthy to be the gates of Paradise; the tall and richly 
decorated belfry of Giotto, the Santa Maria Novella, 
beautiful as a bride; the San Spirito, another great 
monument of the genius of Brunelleschi ; the Palazzo 
Vecchio !!' It is a fruitless struggle ; no one can describe 
such untold richness; one had better go home and read 
the life of Lorenzo de' Medici. 

It is a great thing for an ignorant person to have a 
scholar at her elbow. I go back in memory to that poor 
young traveler, who, guide-book in hand [myself], 
sought to read Europe. Had I known how many times 
I was to do it again, I might have been more patient — 



ITALY AND VICTOR EMMANUEL 

but there is nothing after all like the "first time" Mr. 
Marsh was my learned cicerone. 

Florence we thoroughly enjoyed, for we had there 
the felicity of a visit to Mr. Marsh, one of the most 
eminent men whom this country has produced. He is 
so well known by his work on the English language 
and by his splendid plea for our forests that it is 
not necessary for me to speak his eulogy, but there 
was in his daily conversation an instruction beyond all 
words. He had command of all languages, spoke Italian 
with the King, Victor Emmanuel, to the King's great 
relief, and could meet everyone on his own ground ; he 
was a Mezzofanti. The present Queen Marguerite had, 
as the gay young Princess, been a great favorite of his, 
and his niece, Miss Crane, frequently spent weeks with 
her, that they might talk English together. Mr. Marsh 
used to say, with his beautiful simplicity, "For so young 
a girl, the Princess has read a great deal." When I was 
presented to the Queen, and had the privilege of talking 
with her, in 1885, she spoke of Mr. Marsh with the most 
affectionate respect, as she always does. 

Mr. Marsh, was, of course, a guide to Florence of the 
rarest. He went with us to the great monuments, 
churches, and the Boboli Gardens; he took me across 
that melodramatic bridge which unites the Pitti with the 
Uffizi. Indeed, one needs a guide there, else one skips 
wonderful and rich things ; he took me to the statue of 
II Pensiero of Lorenzo de' Medici, son of the greatest 
Lorenzo and father of Catherine de' Medici, and quoted 
to me Rogers's lines about that mysterious statue,* the 
rarest thing in Florence! this silent statue. He invited 

*" It fascinates, and is intolerable." 

3 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

us to his house (a villa in the suburbs, frescoed by some 
immortal hand), and gave us good and most distin- 
guished dinners. I remember particularly his presenting 
to us Miss Arbesser, a very liberal Austrian (when liber- 
ality among Austrians was almost an unheard of quality), 
who had been the governess of the young Princess. 

To this lady I owed so many very charming anec- 
dotes of the life and daily work of this gifted Princess 
that I have always felt that I knew her, and I gained a 
clear idea that Princesses have to work far harder than 
ordinary girls. The mastery of five or six languages, 
the knowledge of history, the power to talk to men and 
women of any nationality, all this was expected of Miss 
Arbesser* s pupil, and she did it all, and wonderfully well. 

Marguerite of Savoie has been gifted by nature with 
a fine mind, and a love of study, and with a singularly 
good heart. It is her smile which holds Italy together. 
Sprung from a noble, warlike race, she has their cour- 
age, but her goodness is that of a saint, her tact that of a 
woman of the world, and her consummate power of sink- 
ing herself out of sight, her unselfishness — that is her 
own, a gift of God. 

She is a very religious woman, and although the 
Vatican and the Quirinal have been politically at odds 
since she was Queen, she is still a very dear daughter of 
the Pope, and receives yearly his blessing. To the 
King, a knightly and noble person, but silent, reserved, 
hating society and the restraints of etiquette, what has 
she not been ! She adores her Umberto ; it is pleasant 
to see her look at him. But I did not know all this 
until long after. How much, however, Miss Arbesser's 
conversation prepared me to believe and to enjoy I can 

4 



ITALY AND VICTOR EMMANUEL 

hardly measure now. I believe Miss Arbesser lives to 
enjoy seeing her perfected work, this beautiful Queen. 
I hope so. It is her right. 

On my first visit to Italy we went northward over the 
Brenner Pass, which no traveler should skip, and saw 
Verona and Nuremberg, which also let no traveler skip, 
for there are the Middle Ages. There is enough in each 
city to make a book out of, but we all see Europe in 
the same way ; we carry ourselves with us, and we make 
just so much tributary as we can bring away ; there is 
more than we can any of us appreciate. Baden-Baden 
was very charming to me. It was very gay, the play 
was high, the tables were crowded. Princes traveling 
incognito (even the "Baron Renfrew," which did not 
in the least disguise the "Prince des Galles") or Russian 
Princesses, gambling with cool frenzy, as they do every- 
thing; Frenchwomen of renown, quite indifferent to the 
fate of empires, so that their flirtations and the roulette 
went on undisturbed; reputable English men and 
women, elbowing the fat Duchess who had run away 
with her courier; the impecunious Duke who had been 
assisted by Padwick; Americans with pockets full of 
money, readily risked on the "trente et quarante;" 
beautiful American women, exceedingly well dressed; 
the famous Mme. Ratazzi, cousin of Louis Napoleon; 
the Princess Suvaroff, the blind King of Hanover, 
respectable old gentleman, creeping away from wife 
and daughter to play heavily on the sly ; women infatu- 
ated with the excitement; men of all nations walking 
arm in arm with the women of the demi-monde in the 
face and eyes of the carefully guarded young women 
whom they would afterward marry — such was the picture. 

5 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

My first vision of a gambling table ! I was to see it 
often enough afterward at Monte Carlo and at Aix-les- 
Bains; but I can remember even the faces of these far 
away people while I forget the players whom I saw last 
year. The ensemble is the same. Human folly has a 
great likeness to itself the world over. 

Royalty, however, behaves better in an emergency 
than we do. I saw the other day, at a public meeting, an 
inkstand turned over on the stage, and this foolish acci- 
dent made everybody laugh and shriek. It discomposed 
the orator and spoiled a lady's dress. When did I last 
see an inkstand overturned? In Rome, in 1885, I was 
privileged to go one Sunday afternoon to see, on the his- 
torical Hill of the Capitol, the dedication of a monument 
to Victor Emmanuel, the gift of United Italy. It is all 
finished now, I dare say, but then it was on paper. 

Old Depretis, who looked to be an old Druid, or like 
the Moses of Michelangelo, with an immense white 
beard to his waist, and white hair which seemed to have 
been swept by all the tempests of Italy, moral, political, 
and physical which have covered that peninsula for fifty 
years, was to deliver the eulogium. As he began, all 
the clocks began to strike, led off by the prodigious 
clock of the Capitol, which sounds as if Hercules himself 
were pounding on the Tarpeian Rock. Even the iron 
lungs of Depretis were silenced ; he could stem the tor- 
rent of a parliamentary storm, but Time was too much for 
him. The old Druid smiled, and the Queen put her little 
hand over her pretty red lips as an enforced silence fell 
on the orator. 

He began: "On this historical Hill of the Capitol we 
recall the words of Victor Emmanuel, those celebrated, 

6 



ITALY AND VICTOR EMMANUEL 

prophetic words, 'Ci cearmo, e ci resteremo' [Here we are, 
and here we shall remain.]" Proceeding, he eloquently 
traced the traits of the work of "Risorgimento," upon 
which Victor Emmanuel had not feared to risk his crown. 
Turning to the young King — Humbert — he said: 
" Heroism is hereditary in the house of Savoy," and he 
recounted the visit of the King to Naples during the 
cholera season. I saw tears in the eyes of the Queen; 
it was a noble compliment, and deserved. The great 
audience rose up and cheered enthusiastically, while 
Humbert, visibly moved, rose and bowed. He rarely 
rises, excepting when his father's name is mentioned, 
when he leaps to his feet and remains uncovered. The 
King "carries," as the French say, a truly magnificent 
dignity. 

Then all the splendid company went forward to sign 
the "proces verbal," — the King, the Queen, the Prince 
of Naples, the Duchess of Genoa, all the Ministers and 
Ambassadors. Then occurred the accident which made 
the whole crowd experience the feeling of cold chills 
running down the back. 

General Pasi, a superb militaire, reaching forward to 
get a hammer, pulled off the tablecloth and upset the 
enormous inkstand, which flowed, as if it contained a 
quart of the blackest ink, all over the table, stage, and 
the ladies' dresses. The Duchess of Genoa got a lib- 
eral bath of it. 

Now, she did not love her royal brother-in-law, the 
Re Galantuomo; nor did he love her. She made a 
"mesalliance" and would marry an officer much beneath 
her royal rank. So there were winks and smiles in the 
audience. But not one smile broke over that royal 

7 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

group. The Queen looked as if a bath of ink was the 
one thing needful. The King took hammer and trowel, 
and put himself in the attitude of a mason. Coins and 
papers were put in a box and placed in the corner-stone. 
Poor General Pasi tried to wipe up the ink with his 
pocket-handkerchief, but the King pounded away as if 
hammering at corner-stones was his daily occupation, 
and, giving a final tap to the top stone, he ended the 
ceremony. 

By four o'clock we were all coming down the steps of 
Ara Coeli watching the crowd, the changing mass of 
color, and seeing a sight never to be forgotten — the ven- 
erable Capitol covered with the flags of all nations, 
the Roman sky behind it of an inimitable blue. It was 
a perfect felicity of picturesqueness, while, waving on a 
scarlet baldanquin, were the words "A Vittorio Eman- 
uele II, Padre della Patria. " On each side of the 
Tribune stood a column surmounted by a statue holding 
a crown of laurel, while the grandest equestrian statue in 
the world, that of Marcus Aurelius, dominated the scene. 

The dear little Queen, leaning on her husband's arm, 
smiled at the crowd. The Ministers — Depretis, Cop- 
pino, Genala, Magliani, Possina, Brin, Ricotti, and 
Grimaldi — followed her down the steps. The Duke 
Tortonia, the richest man in Rome, to whom had been 
given the charge of the monument (he having subscribed 
freely), also followed the dignitaries to the court and the 
soldiers of the gallant pageant faded away. 

But poor General Pasi carried away his inky handker- 
chief, more terrible to him than defeat in battle, more 
fatal than that of Desdemona, the one blot on the splen- 
did ceremony. 

8 



ITALY AND VICTOR EMMANUEL 

Mr. Story thought the Capitol Hill too crowded for 
this grand Valhalla of columns and temples ; he thought 
the archaic statue to Marcus Aurelius would dwarf 
even the Re Galantuomo. A part of a very interesting 
mediaeval tower and an old convent wall had to be torn 
down to make way for it. 

"Why not," said the American artist, "have put the 
whole thing in the Piazza Independenza, which Victor 
Emmanuel made, at the end of the Via Nazionale, with a 
straight vista of several miles in length for it to look 
through and be looked at. Then modern Rome might 
have boasted that she borrowed, but did not steal, from 
ancient Rome ; that she copied from afar off, but still 
well, and that she did not crowd her Re Galantuomo, 
but let him forever rein in his gallant steed, in the new 
Rome which he had made. ' ' 

When Mr. Story talked I always agreed with him — 
he had such charm of manner, such artistic and common 
sense. Still I was not sorry to have seen this splendid 
ceremony, to have added another memory to those richly 
freighted steps which Peter ascended on his knees — 
"Quo vadis?" — which Rienzi, last of the Tribunes, 
ascended, which are worn by the knees of pious pilgrims. 
I always weep on these occasions, from an inherited Irish 
hysteria which afflicts me when I see men salute the flag, 
or hear "The Star Spangled Banner," or am moved by 
the recital of the national hymn of any country. 

So I am glad of the incident of the spilled ink, for it 
gave me something to laugh at and a reason for wiping 
away my absurd tears, which always expose me to ridi- 
cule, particularly from those who are nearest and dear- 
est to me. 



Social and Other Memories of Rome 

Horses, the King's horses, the races, and the hunt, had 
much place in the pleasures of my Roman Winter of 1885. 
The beautiful women of famous lineage and noble names, 
the Princesses Orsini, Barbarini, and Colonna, and those 
of the house of Bonaparte, and those who claimed de- 
scent from Queen Christina of Spain, Rome's famous 
refugee of fifty years ago, and many a titled English 
woman, not to forget our American Princesses — how 
they did scamper over the Roman Campagna! What 
a brilliant and a peerless scene it was — some of them in 
scarlet habits as bright as the wild flowers which they 
trampled down. How often I met them or saw them 
from afar as I made my sober way to Veii, or Tivoli, or 
Albano, in a quiet barouche. 

The hunt was a goodly sight. On a hunt morning 
on the Roman Campagna the dogs were like those which 
Hipollyta describes: "I was with Hercules and Cadmus 
once, when in the woods of Crete they bayed the bear." 
These Roman dogs are "dewlapped like Thessalian 
bulls," indeed. 

The Roman gilded youth thought much of the races 
and the hunt. They were always there, so I really got 
to mixing up the Count Primoli, son of a Bonaparte 
Princess, and his friends with the Heavenly Twins, Castor 
and Pollux, of whom the Romans cherish the fond mem- 



MEMORIES OF ROME 

ory that they visited the Forum to announce the victory 
of Lake Regillus, and after watering their horses in the 
Fons Internae, they disappeared, riding off into Paradise 
again. The Heavenly Twins effected their departure 
"on winged horses," says a veracious history. Noth- 
ing can be too fabulous or even too poetical or too beau- 
tiful to believe, when watching a hunting scene on the 
Campagna. 

And the Queen would drive by, showing her smile 
and her scarlet liveries, and adding a new and better 
Livia to our Roman memories. 

The young Romans are very handsome and good 
riders. Among these young men was many a perfect 
Adonis. Beauty constantly asserts itself: it is at least 
a letter of introduction. One of the best horsemen 
and most perfect beauties was said to be cruel as 
a tiger. He beat his wife and made twenty women 
miserable, and there were also many unrecorded heart 
pangs outside. Well, these handsome men are apt 
to be false and cold, like tigers and other beautiful 
animals. Nero, the typical tyrant, was very handsome, 
if one of his busts be correct. This demon could look 
like an angel. And we might pick out many an Adonis 
among the busts of both good and bad Emperors. 

The type remains. The young Roman noble is apt 
to be an Adonis. The youthful eye seeks him out. I 
have called him a gilded youth. He is not so gilded as 
he would like to be. He seeks an American heiress 
occasionally, and in nine cases out of ten he makes her a 
good husband, in spite of popular prejudice. The 
beauty of a strong athletic Adonis who, like the Greek, 
can run, jump, pitch, toss, lift, and box, and ride like a 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

centaur is very dear to both men and women. It is a 
high type, a sign of perfection in race, a perfect ani- 
mal. Humboldt pronounced Nicholas I of Russia "the 
handsomest male animal he had ever seen. ' ' 

More than one such example of remarkable personal 
beauty was noticeable in these gallops and runs on the 
Campagna ; and I once saw one of them save a life, which 
is always a great feather in any man's cap. 

The Campagna is a very dangerous hunting ground. 
It is full of holes, in which one's horse steps and breaks a 
leg, throwing the rider over his head. Mr. Hartmann 
Kuhn, of Philadelphia, lost his life in that way near Rome 
many years ago. As I was one day watching the hunt I 
saw a lady run away with. Her vicious horse put his 
foot in one of these deathtraps; twenty horses were 
bearing down upon her prostrate body, when Adonis 
rode between them and averted the danger. He got 
off his splendid horse, picked her up, and rescued her 
before one could breathe. The barouche of an Eng- 
lish Countess drove up rapidly. Half a dozen carriages 
came to proffer aid. The sufferer proved to be an Eng- 
lish girl, quite accustomed to a "cropper," and she was 
not seriously hurt. I knew her and her mother well, 
and thus came to know Adonis. 

I was very much struck with his modesty in disclaim- 
ing any heroism in this act, although he had been badly 
lamed by the horse which he intercepted and which 
would have trampled down Lady Gertrude. He had to 
push away his adorers. He had, I heard, twenty love 
letters a day, but he bore it all with a certain scorn and 
indifference. The very familiarity of his beauty had 
deprived it of charm to himself. Vanity is more fre- 



MEMORIES OF ROME 

quently the vice of a flat-faced, freckled, gooseberry- 
eyed, carroty-haired individual than of Adonis. Indeed, 
the French verb "se pavaner," "to peacockify," which 
the French use so much, is generally conjugated by the 
lesser lights of Beauty. The Adonis seldom or never 
struts. He would cease to be Adonis if he did strut. 

So this particular specimen of manly beauty, whom I 
will call Count Nero, continued to be the ultimatum of 
personal attraction to the female mind. I one day hap- 
pened to ask about his wife. 

"She is a Russian Princess, of great eccentricity, 
beauty, wealth, and prestige," answered my friend. 
"They were both gamblers, but they got on very well 
until they began to play against each other. He de- 
clared that she ruined his luck, and then she told her 
story, and said, among other things, that he threw his 
boots at her. ' ' 

When I looked at Count Nero's calm, beautiful, 
refined Italian face, with an under jaw of bronze, and 
white teeth which were so perfect that they could have 
bitten a tenpenny nail in two, I concluded that if he 
had not thrown boots at his wife, he might have thrown 
pointed javelins, called words. 

But I forgot all about Count Nero in my study of 
Rome. I turned to the real Nero and philosophized 
over that kick which sent Poppaea out of the world. 

Lanciani and Rossi were digging up something every 
day, and I went to see a wonderful room belonging to 
the palace of Septimius Severus, with the frescoes as 
fresh as when they were put on seventeen centuries ago. 
Here we moderns get an idea of antique luxury which 
puts us out of conceit with our own achievements. 

13 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

Certainly Nero was a man of taste, and Poppaea was a 
"good dresser." In the palaces of the Caesars on 
the Palatine, I supped with Domitian. Here Rome 
began. Here is Roma Quadrata. Here Romulus may 
have reigned, and from this place the word Rome, which 
signifies ' 'force," was taken. I saw the gigantic remains 
of the palace of Tiberius, the palace of Caligula, the 
temple of Apollo, the edifices of Septimius Severus, and 
the remains of the house of Caesar. 

What did I not see? After a long, muddy walk (for 
the soil was loose with recent rains), I sat down on a 
fragment of sculptured rock which was a part of Livia's 
bedroom, and looked into that sheltered nook where 
she sat with her maidens. I had scanty time to think 
during all this long, bewildering journey into history. 
There was a circular vase of stone from which were 
growing wild-flowers, perhaps self-planted, which was in 
the center of the smaller dining-room of what was per- 
haps the house of Vespasian. It gave a familiar and 
feminine look to this part of the ruin, as if women and 
little children had left their voices and laughter behind 
them, and I shall remember its sweet, sheltered aspect 
when I have forgotten much else, even the madness of 
Caligula and the spot where he was murdered. 

The Caesars, like the gentlemen they were, did not 
live much at this public place. They lived at their 
villas, the fortunate creatures, and they came to this 
Quirinal, or White House, or Windsor Castle, by a secret 
underground passage, now unearthed. I was permitted 
to walk a little way through it, and I paused a moment, 
where Augustus sat as a beggar to appease Nemesis, and 
I wondered if any of these great people had been happy. 

H 



MEMORIES OF ROME 

I emerged from this splendid walk, not by the Via 
Sacra, which led from the Arch of Constantine to the 
Arch of Titus, for that was closed for excavation, but by 
the open streets of Rome, all of which lead to the 
Capitol, and I soon found myself in that room which 
contains the Marble Faun and the Dying Gladiator, 
where I often treated myself to the pleasure of reading 
over and over Hawthorne's words. 

I know of no such intellectual treat as thus to com- 
bine the most classic English ever written with the 
noblest impressions of art. 

There is the Antinous, with his perfect mouth, and 
from the window just behind him that view which gives 
one "the great sweep of the Colosseum, the battered arch 
of Septimius Severus, and the blue Alban hills which 
Raphael painted, but a little way off — consider how 
much history is garnered up between!" 

One day when I reached home after such a morning, 
I found the card of General Garavaglia, Master of the 
Horse, with a permesso to visit the royal stables to see 
the King's horses. 

The glory of equipage as it existed in the old Rome 
of the Popes has departed forever. No more scarlet 
carriages and fine horses for the cardinals in the Rome 
of to-day. The only noticeable horses are those driven 
by the King. This patriotic and democratic monarch 
drives in an open wagon, or high phaeton, with one 
officer at his side and a servant behind, lifting his hat 
to every one in answer to the vivas. But he does love a 
fine horse. It is his extravagance. I was glad to see 
these grand creatures at home, although General Gara- 
vaglia' s card was coupled with the caution that I "was 

is 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

not to smoke on the premises. " As I am not a Russian 
Princess, this was unnecessary, but as a large party of 
friends accompanied me, perhaps it was as well. 

As the equine taste of the King is a passion, his two 
hundred horses are well lodged. Each horse stood in 
his own loose box on straw as golden as the oats with 
which the Roman Consul once fed his horse, and each 
of the King's horses had his name painted over his stall 
— Lepanto, Brigmano, Archippe, Iredo, Mecano, 
Bembo, Brimarte, Captain Windsor, Meleaguer, "Cox, 
Fox" (which I fear is Italian for Box and Cox). I 
wrote some of these names in my notebook, which will 
give some idea of the geographical and historical latitude 
of the nomenclature of the royal stables. 

Nothing could have been more kingly than the be- 
havior of these noble creatures — high-strung and nervous, 
their shining coats were shivering with self-restraint, for 
they knew they were being admired. 

"They like ladies to come and see them," said the 
groom. 

Just then there was an agitation in one of the boxes. 
A large rat had put in an appearance without a permesso 
from General Garavaglia. The groom ran, jumped on 
the rat, and killed it — the only time I ever saw a man 
kill a rat! The groom was intensely mortified, and 
begged of us not to mention this invasion of the propri- 
eties, but ten years have passed since then. I noticed 
one beautiful Arabian, half-Sardinian horse, used for the 
royal reviews. He was a miracle of beauty, and should 
have been named the "Star of the Morning." 

The two most prized old carriage-horses, called 
Monte Notte and Ercole, twenty-eight years old, were 

16 



MEMORIES OF ROME 

devoted to the carriage service of the Queen. Two iron 
roans called Petard and Polo, a present from the Prince 
of Wales, were driven every day by the King. The 
immense rank and file of these stables are kept for the 
use of the Court. 

When an Ambassador is invited to dine with royalty, 
a carriage is sent for him. The Court ladies, when on 
duty, are sent for, and driven to and from, in a royal car- 
riage. 

But to return to ourselves. We then were taken 
into a guarded gallery, where we saw the saddles and 
bridles of Victor Emmanuel. These trappings were 
embroidered in gold, silver, and gems. There was a 
flashing piece of raiment for a high-stepping charger, fit 
for the Field of the Cloth of Gold, from the Sultan. 
There was the whole story of Turkish magnificence, cruel 
taxation, and the haughty arrogance of the Ottoman 
Empire in that one piece of unnecessary equestrian fur- 
niture. The Children of the Desert had made Victor 
Emmanuel their Colonel, and had sent him a bridle 
gorged with turquois and rubies. 

And there was the saddle used by Napoleon when he 
crossed the Alps; and a little saddle, with little stirrups 
of gold, was carefully preserved. Oh, pathetic little 
stirrups for little feet ! Those of the King of Rome — 
Napoleon II — who was but a shadow of a noble name, 
he who died in his first youth, child of many hopes and 
prayers, only as Duke de Reichstadt. "Ye build! Ye 
build! But ye enter not in." After this I cared no 
more for the royal trappings. 

The King is so fond of hunting that he has a separ- 
ate stable for his little string of rough ponies who carry 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

him in pursuit of the wild boar. He has a stud farm 
just out of Pisa, where he raises horses, and thither are 
sent the presents he receives from the Bey of Tunis, the 
Ameer of Afghanistan, the Emperor of Austria, the Czar 
of Russia, the Prince of Wales, the Emperor of Ger- 
many, and the " Children of the Desert," who perhaps 
send the best horses, certainly the fleetest of them all. 

I was pleased to recognize some of these noble horses 
as I saw them later at a royal review. They are linked 
with a curious real story — an episode which has always 
seemed to me to be romantic. 

At my Hotel di Londra, in the Piazza di Spagua, was 
a motley group of people who lived there three months 
or more, meeting every day at dinner, and so there grew 
up a sort of intimacy and a knowledge of each other 
which was, however, fragmentary. One man, a little 
Belgian lawyer, knew everybody, and used to tell the 
rest of us who such and such a new-comer might be. 
Lord Houghton and Lady Galway were near me, and a 
famous old Neapolitan Duke and his family farther 
down. One day, as the ladies of my party had left for 
Florence, I was surprised to see sitting next me a beau- 
tiful blond woman, simply dressed, who began to talk 
to me, in a pretty voice, with a decidedly American 
accent. I do not now remember how long we sat thus 
chatting away, but several days after that I saw her at 
the hunt, on a white horse, in a blue habit, riding 
superbly. 

My Belgian lawyer one day volunteered the informa- 
tion that she was a countrywoman of mine, a Western 
widow, he said, "or rather she is trying to be a widow. 
She is seeking a divorce from her husband," he added. 

18 



MEMORIES OF ROME 

The next day after this I was in the Vatican library, 
copying and examining some of the wonderful manu- 
scripts, even a palimpsest which bore on its varied surface 
the De Amicitia and an oration of Cicero. 

To this high honor I had been introduced by Mgr. 
Cataldi, the sweetest old gentleman in Rome, a high 
official of the Pope, and I was struggling with my ignor- 
ance, when my American divorcee, came in. Seeing 
my occupation, she became intensely interested and sat 
down by me. "I cannot manage this Greek," I said to 
her. 

"Oh! give it to me; I will translate it for you," 
said she. 

And taking my pencil she proceeded to interpret for 
me the most incomprehensible of manuscripts. 

"Ah," thought I, "what wonderful women my 
countrywomen are! This is evidently a Vassar College 
girl." 

She made me regret that I, too, was not a Vassar 
College girl by the variety of her knowledge. The next 
day I met her at the door of our hotel, waiting for her 
carriage. She was disappointed that it did not arrive. 
I said, "If you are going to the royal review, so am I. 
Will you drive with me?" 

"Gladly," said she. So she stepped in after me, 
giving me the right-hand seat pointedly, and mak- 
ing herself most agreeable. She told me the names of 
all the officers; and as they turned to leave the field, 
several of them passed our carriage, the review being 
over, and saluted her. I thought my Western divorcee 
was getting on pretty well in Rome. 

"You must have been often here," I remarked. 

19 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

"Yes," said she, her face clouding; "too much. I 
have suffered here." 

I, of course, dropped the subject, and we talked of 
other things. 

A Court ball came shortly after, and standing near 
the Queen, magnificently attired with a coronet of emer- 
alds and diamonds, stood my Western divorcee. 

Then I knew that the Belgian lawyer had been hoax- 
ing me. 

I asked the Marquis della Stufa who she was, and he 
told me she was the Russian Princess of great beauty, 
eccentricity, and wealth. She was the wife of Adonis, — 
of Count Nero. 

I then remembered that Adonis had disappeared from 
the hunt. I had not seen him for several weeks, and I 
afterward learned that this mismated pair did not visit 
Rome at the same time. 

As she sat down at breakfast on a subsequent morn- 
ing, she evidently felt a change in my manner, for she 
laid her hand on mine most kindly and said: "Do not 
let my rank separate us." I must say I felt appalled at 
the easy manner in which I had treated my supposed 
countrywoman, and I told her the whole story. But 
said I: 

"You speak English like an American." 

"Do I then speak it so well?" said she. 

We became great friends, and I felt for her a decided 
admiration. She gave me the story of her life; — a sub- 
ject for Ouida to handle. Never have I met a more 
accomplished mind, and rarely have I seen so beautiful 
a woman. Her code of morals and mine were very 
different, but there was a grasp, a courage, and a sort of 

20 



MEMORIES OF ROME 

inward purity of thought which made her most attrac- 
tive. 

And I found her very American — as I have found 
many a Russian. I believe that Russians are more like 
us than any other nation, or we are more like them — 
excepting that we neither gamble nor smoke ; at least I 
hope that we do not. 

You enter Rome, if you approach it by the lovely 
Corniche Road, over miles of the Campagna, which con- 
tinues to be to you the remarkable Roman feature. 
For miles away you see the dome of St. Peter's. You 
see the long lines of the Roman aqueducts, like an 
invertebrate animal. You realize that here, seventeen 
centuries ago, dwelt millions of human beings who owned 
the world. Every step of the noble road of Septimius 
Severus shows a tomb, a column, a monument, a statue, 
and as you draw nearer Rome, the palaces, the arches, 
the domes, the jagged outline of the Pantheon, and the 
high, straight exclamation point of the Egyptian obelisk 
give you that immortal profile of Rome which, once 
seen, is never forgotten. 

A few more shrieks of the engine, and all is lost in an 
inconvenient little depot. This is the way Rome re- 
ceives her guests in the nineteenth century. They did it 
better in the days of Zenobia. 

So that Rome became to me a fascinating appanage 
of the Campagna. That is the place for memories. Of 
course, on New Year's day, driving to the Quirinal, and 
seeing the carriages bringing guests to honor their King, 
there are still gold and fine feathers, and the liveries are 
of scarlet. But it is a poor replica of the Past, even of 
the immediate Past. There are a few striking figures 

21 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

about — men of the Trastevere, in peaked hats, cloaks, 
and splendid scarfs; a few handsome Roman women in 
gay petticoats and aprons, velvet bodice, and embroid- 
ered chemisette, with the famous square white cap, on top 
of which they carry a brass pot. Now, the Popolo Rom- 
ano is not, as a rule, picturesque. Although the army, 
with the gigantic cuirassiers in gold helmets, are fine, and 
the rank and file, with the Garibaldi hat and cock's feath- 
ers, are very pretty, I missed color. But if on the lovely 
Campagna you see a ruined tower, an almond tree, and 
a silent shepherd with a shawl over his shoulder, stand- 
ing motionless, you are rewarded. 

There is Rome — old Rome — and that shepherd has 
stood there since Cicero. I used to like to go to the 
weekly auctions, and see, perhaps, some of the peasants 
in costume. I bought a lamp with an owl on it, which 
had perhaps lighted Cicero to bed, but it will never light 
any other man — since these days of kerosene Its light, 
like his, has gone out behind a more vulgar one. 

I shall never see the Campagna again, with its scarlet 
anemones and its gay riders, but I shall remember the 
handsomest man, Count Nero, and the most beautiful 
woman, whom he made so unhappy, and possibly she 
made him equally so — the one on his black horse, and 
she on her white one — as they severally and at different 
times rode past that kodac which we carry in the eye, 
and which left on my brain an enduring picture. 



22 



Memories of Northern Italy and of 
the Italian Lakes 

The "Arco della Pace" at Milan, built by Napoleon 
to finish the great Simplon route, is a lofty gateway of 
white marble with three openings for carriages. On the 
top is the Goddess of Peace, drawn in a chariot by six 
splendid bronze horses. At each corner of the platform 
on which she sits or stands there is a horseman, ready to 
scamper to the ends of the earth; indeed, these bronze 
riders have difficulty in reining in their impatient iron 
steeds. They shame the modern Italian racehorses who 
endeavor to run against them below. It would be too 
much to ask of these live horses to be as handsome 
and spirited as their bronze brothers above, which form 
part of an artistic and noble group. Nature here is less 
beautiful than art. 

The arch is enriched by statues and bas-reliefs, and 
has been successively written over by inscriptions to 
Napoleon, the Emperor Francis, and Victor Emmanuel, 
as the fickle star of fortune has risen and set on these 
monarchs. It is a splendid terminus to the great Sim- 
plon Road, and one needs to be let down easily from 
that glorious and spirit-stirring drive. We had a fellow- 
traveler who ought to have sat to Mark Twain, and his 
ingenuous remarks seemed to relieve our feelings in our 

23 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

delight over Northern Italy. "I tell you, I dunno how 
I am comin' down to common doings," said he, looking 
up at the fine arch. He afterward went shopping with 
us in the Promenade Vittorio Emanuele, where I 
helped him to buy some pretty things for his wife. "I 
tell you," said he, "this is the cheese." I agreed with 
him. 

Milan has had an eventful and an honorable destiny. 
Great as it was under the Romans, it has been repeat- 
edly almost annihilated. Its troubles with the German 
Emperors and its utter destruction by Barbarossa 
scarcely left it a local habitation or a name, but four 
Italian cities rushed to rebuild their favorite capital of 
Lombardy, and for four hundred years it was constantly 
growing richer and richer. It had been one of the great 
silk manufacturers of the world, — that silk which Mantua 
fashioned so gracefully that the word "mantua-maker" 
became a universal generic term for those who are tailors 
for women. Milan fell into Spanish hands with the rest 
of Lombardy, and in 17 14 became Austrian. The Cis- 
Alpine Republic made it its capital in 1796. The king- 
dom of Italy claimed it until 18 15. In 1859 tne Austri- 
ans, whose temporary rule had been so hated, were driven 
out, and now Milan prospers happy and healthy, as the 
bright and beaming star of revivified Italy. 

If for no other reason, Milan should be visited to con- 
tradict the traveler's idea that ruin and inaction and 
beggars and dirt must be associated with an Italian 
city. Here is a neat, prosperous, busy town, full of 
energy and success ; indeed, we were a little disappointed 
by its American air of business and thrift, for we were 
epicures of decay and in search of antiquity. The rail- 

24 






£ ^-i^i? &&A<o M«^&^ 



MEMORIES OF NORTHERN ITALY 

way station, for instance, is now as commodious and 
as modern as that famous one at Springfield, Mass. But, 
unlike that fine temple of movement, the Milan station 
is beautiful, and painted with frescoes. I can see before 
me now the lovely faces which the artist has given to 
the heads of Commerce and Industry, and it is certainly 
agreeable to have something pretty to look at while you 
are " waiting for the cars." The mind is aroused from 
its railway torpor, and the body from its fatigue and 
apprehension, and from that dyspeptic load of pain in 
the chest (if we lunch at the station) which we get at an 
American station; but not so in Milan. There is no 
dyspepsia in Italy. 

The next shock of newness was the Hotel Cavour, a 
luxurious house in a new square. I daresay it has a 
dozen successors newer and more luxurious, but in 1869 
this hotel was famous. In front of our windows stood 
the statue of Cavour, "the brains of Italy," a short, stout 
man in spectacles. But the delicate Italian fancy has 
placed at the foot of the pedestal a bronze figure of 
"Italia," writing in letters of gold the name Cavour. 
The flash of color, of sentiment, the beauty of the 
female figure, began to reassure us. We began to real- 
ize that we were not at any American "junction," and 
in another hour the cathedral came like a strain of music 
to soothe our wounded sensibilities, and we could afford, 
like good citizens of the world, to be glad that Milan 
was so prosperous. 

The world is flooded with pictures of "this eighth 
wonder of the world, the Cathedral of Milan," but not 
one of them gives an idea of its majesty. In its rich, 
rare, unapproachable beauty, as it rises with its thou- 

25 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

sands of statues, with its immaculate whiteness, into 
the bluest of skies, it seems like one of those snow moun- 
tains you have just left behind you in Switzerland — a giant 
of the North has wandered down to these sunny plains 
and yields himself to the soft enchantment of the scene, 
so purely, perfectly white, so finished and vast ; whether 
you gaze at it from far or near, it never loses; it always 
gains. You summon your whole strength and mount 
the steps — five hundred of them. After the first hun- 
dred you emerge on the roof of some chapel, to survey 
the statues over your head ; even here you must look at 
them through a glass. Three of Canova's masterpieces 
are pointed out to you. One of them bears the Roman 
impress of that modern Caesar, the first Napoleon; you 
go on, and after three hundred steps you are allowed 
another rest. 

Here you are among the statues. A frozen army — a 
procession of heroes, saints, apostles, martyrs, pass before 
you ; every pinnacle of the elaborate Italian Gothic is 
finished with a human form. The church of Maria 
Nascenti blossoms, as it should, with the human race; 
and far above you, still in glorious majesty and clothed 
in brightest gold, is she who, first among women, claims 
this great church as her footstool, the Mother of our 
risen Lord! You are ascending, until one regiment 
after another of marble men is left behind you, until the 
great Cathedral seems your only world. Look where 
you will, blue sky and statues are all you see; still 
higher, and the fair city lies at your feet, and beyond is 
the soft landscape, and in the far horizon, dimly visible, 
is a superb outline of the Monte Rosa and the Alps. 
Here, while we were dreaming, our accidental Western 

26 



MEMORIES OF NORTHERN ITALY 

traveler acquaintance, with a group of many other trav- 
elers finds us out, and he remarked : " Considerable many 
of them, ain't there? Make a good Western town if 
they could travel ; but I reckon they are fixed here [this 
with a sickly smile]. But it 's some, ain't it?" 

The interior of the Cathedral is worthy of the exte- 
rior. Nowhere have I seen greater surprises of delicate 
color. As you gaze up at the cherub heads which seem 
to be looking at you from heaven, you gather new ideas 
of art and architecture from long aisles and shady al- 
coves; you kneel at the altars, your prayers mingled 
with the earthly delights of gratitude and surprise at all 
this beauty. This is the church of St. Philip Neri, 
and here he gave the name " oratorio " to the arrange- 
ment we love so much, such as "Mose in Egitto, " and 
other sacred operas, written by Rossini and others. 

He found that the population of Milan was idle and 
mischievous in the afternoon of Sundays, so he arranged 
these musical plays in the oratory, which interesting bit 
of history I gained from an interesting book — the Rev. 
H. W. Haweis's " Music and Morals." In this church 
are the relics of Carlo Borromeo, a handsome, aristo- 
cratic young Prince, who took to himself the lesson 
which the Saviour gave to the rich young man. In 1576, 
when the plague was devastating the earth, and the fear 
of contagion was such that no minister of God could be 
found to bury the dead, Carlo Borromeo went forth bare- 
footed, with his wooden crucifix, to pray with, and 
help these stricken creatures. He studied medicine 
that he might minister to them, and not only in his 
religious, but in his medical capacity, showed that hero- 
ism and devotion which were so rare in a bigoted and 

27 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

superstitious age. He had better fortune than most 
men who are larger than their fellows. He was not per- 
secuted or excommunicated. Insurrections of human 
intelligence cannot always be kept down. He had a 
princely family behind him, and he rose to be a Car- 
dinal. They show the rich gold and jeweled tributes to 
him from the powerful lords, but to a man of his soul 
the prayers and tears of the people were more precious. 

Write him as one who loved his fellow-man. 

On Isola Bella, where their palace stands, the Bor- 
romeos have carved on their feudal walls the motto of 
their Cardinal uncle and chief, "Humilitas;" it is the 
purest pearl in their princely coronet. The famous 
Ambrosian Library in Milan was founded by Archbishop 
Cardinal Frederic Borromeo, another of this admirable 
family. While in the Ambrosian Library I looked at 
the love letters of Lucrezia Borgia, and saw a lock of her 
very red hair. She was a North of Italy blonde, appar- 
ently, although born in Rome. Roscoe says "that they 
are not love letters at all, but friendly letters to a pater- 
nal friend;" and I suppose he knew. She was dreadfully 
fascinating — that I do know ; and I hope that she was 
good. Like all beauties she had unexampled misfor- 
tunes, and has left her fair fame for historians to play 
football with. Somebody else must settle the question. 
The Brera, a palace of science and arts, contains that 
famous statue of Napoleon, dressed as a Roman Em- 
peror, with the little statue of Victory in his right hand, 
which has furnished a simile for so many a budding 
orator. It is by Canova, and very fine. Here, too, is 
the statue of a man who deserves a wider fame — the 

28 



MEMORIES OF NORTHERN ITALY 

great jurist Beccaria, who first called in question the 
justice of capital punishment. 

Milan is not so rich in pictures as Bologna, nor half so 
rich as Florence, of course, but there are some good 
ones — Guido's "Peter and Paul," Guerchino's "Abra- 
ham and Hagar, " and Titian's "St. Jerome," I happen 
to remember. But, oh, the Luinis ! Luini is an artist 
seldom seen out of Italy. At the Church of Maria della 
Grazia there are some pictures of transcendent sweet- 
ness by this artist. The religious sentiment is exquis- 
ite. In the Church of St. Ambrosia is a fresco of his, 
preserved under glass, now made familiar by a beautiful 
replica. Here the Kings of Lombardy and the Empe- 
rors of Germany used to be crowned with the famous iron 
crown, made of the nails of The True Cross, now preserved 
at Monza. When I read this aloud from my little guide- 
book to our Western friend, he shook his head ; he ob- 
jected to the nails. "Too far off," said he; "there are 
some things which I ain't a-goin' to believe." There 
are some mosaics of the ninth century, older than those 
of Venice, it is said; after all, there is some antiquity 
left at Milan. 

The Church of San Lorenzo at Milan is the oldest, 
and of great interest to architects ; it is an octagon, sup- 
porting a noble dome. It contains ancient mosaics, 
which our Western friend did not find at all interesting. 

Milan has eighty churches, and it would be a liberal 
education to see any of them, but human strength gives 
out, and we went to the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, 
which is simply, like the Passages des Princes in Paris, a 
nice place to go shopping in, to buy pretty jewelry, and 
to see the life of Milan. It seemed an immense structure, 

29 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

reaching from the cathedral to La Scala, a length of two 
hundred and twenty yards. It had cost ^520,000, and 
has a cupola one hundred and seventy feet high, lighted 
at evening by two thousand jets of gas. It was a brilliant, 
gay place; it was, in fact, a square of a busy city 
inclosed in masonry, where one could promenade at will. 
I wish we had such an useful inclosure in New York 
for a rainy day. It was built by Milan, to express joy 
for its emancipation from the Austrian yoke. La Scala 
was closed, to my infinite disappointment, for the glories 
of all the queens of song clustered around this famous 
opera house and seemed to halo it. Some weary travel- 
ers are often sheepishly delighted when some famous 
gallery or museum is closed, and they sit down to write 
letters and rest an aching back, but I felt no such dis- 
loyal sentiment at the closing of La Scala. Like Tony 
Lumpkin, 'T could not abide to disappoint myself." 

From Milan to Sesto Calendo is an easy railroad trip, 
and it takes you to the very spot where you can see 
Lago Maggiore best. No wonder the Borromeos have 
been so good here. They were born and lived around 
this enchanted spot. They own Isola Bella, an emerald 
which sparkles on the breast of this beauty, this Mag- 
giore. The olia fragrans blossoms all the year round. 
It is the climate of virtue. Tranquillity reigns. One is 
in a perpetual state of apostrophe. The noble view of 
mountain and lake, the lovely villas on the banks, where 
poets, philosophers, and Princes (and rich Americans) 
have lived and do live, are all entrancing. 

The Italian lakes! They blossom with happiness 
and peace. We drove to Orta, twelve miles back, 
where there is one of those singular things, a religious 

30 



MEMORIES OF NORTHERN ITALY 

mountain, a Calvary. From one expiatory chapel to 
another you go on and upward, if you are a devout 
Catholic, saying your prayers at each. Certain figures in 
terra cotta, memorializing experiences in the history of 
St. Francis d'Assisi, were well done. Some were ludi- 
crous, but the little chapels, embowered in trees and blos- 
soming vines, were lovely, and when we reached the top 
we saw Orta, a gem of a lake, with mountains wooded 
to the top, holding an island on which is a curious old 
convent. Oh, these convent bells! how their chimes 
float upward in the evening air! 

We met Mrs. Kemble at Orta — the famous wit and 
genius, Fanny Kemble. She had crossed with us in the 
" Russia " earlier in the season. On board the * 'Russia' ' 
was her beautiful cousin, Mrs. Scott-Siddons, whom she 
called a "perfect miniature of the famous Sarah Sid- 
dons." Mrs. Scott-Siddons used to amuse us very much 
by her anecdotes of her great cousin. Mrs. Kemble was 
always a sufferer from seasickness, and kept her state- 
room, with her gray hair floating over her dressing-gown. 
Sitting up in a rocking-chair she would declaim for Mrs. 
Scott-Siddons some of her famous parts, and especially 
would Mrs. Scott-Siddons describe her Julia in "The 
Hunchback." When she came to the "I hate you, 
Helen," she drew her watch out of her belt, threw it 
across the stateroom, and smashed it to pieces. "Did 
you not go on the stage too young?" asked Fanny of 
her cousin. "Oh, no; I was older than you were, 
Cousin Fanny," said Mrs. Scott-Siddons, humbly. At 
which Mrs. Kemble remarked : " I was a great genius ; 
are you?" Mrs. Kemble, in her most tragic and blood- 
curdling tone was always terrible. Mrs. Scott-Siddons 

3i 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

was a great beauty and a woman of infinite accomplish- 
ments and most amiable, but she was not a genius, and 
that Mrs. Kemble knew. 

Mrs. Kemble stopped to tell us at Orta that she had 
been traveling though her beloved mountains. Said 
she, waving her hand over the lake: "You showed your 
sense in coming here. Go to Lugano," she added; and 
we passed out of the spell of those grand eyes and that 
magnificent voice. 

The drive home from Orta to Maggiore was most 
characteristically Italian. We saw the poorer kind of 
Italian villagers, the beautiful peasant women and child- 
ren, whom the old painters loved ; the old women bust- 
ling around with a distaff and driving oxen ; the distant 
view of the Apennines, giving us the blue-green outlines 
used by Raphael, Leonardo, Guido, and Correggio. The 
children, with their intense physiognomy, each one look- 
ing like an infant Christ ; all seemed to be the realization 
of a dream. 

Lake Lugano is wild and picturesque, the mountains 
higher, nearer, more precipitious than at Maggiore ; the 
shores splendidly fertile with grapes, olives, and walnut 
groves. At Murino we followed up our friend from Ber- 
nadino, a native of this place, surnamed Luini. We 
went to Santa Maria degli Angeli to see his tender 
religious frescoes. All of this was new to me ; one of 
the pleasures of the ignorant is always finding out some- 
thing new, and I pity those well-informed, stupid trav- 
elers, who know everything before they start. Our sail 
down Lake Como brought the familiar lines of "The 
Lady of Lyons" to our lips, and we could hardly keep 
from quoting poetry all the time. But we had deter- 

32 



MEMORIES OF NORTHERN ITALY 

mined that we would resist this natural impulse, so my 
husband talked to an old English lady about her gout, 
while I talked to her sensible daughter. 

We were all going to see the Villa Carlotta and to be 
charmed with its statues, for there lies the " Cupid and 
Psyche," the cynosure of neighboring eyes, Canova's 
masterpiece. A gentleman brought an excellent copy to 
New York (I believe it is now in the Metropolitan Mu- 
seum of Art) with much else that is valuable and beau- 
tiful. Como is irresistible. We went to Parma to see 
the Correggios, which were far more beautiful than we 
had imagined, especially that room frescoed for the 
unhappy Abbess who did not wish to embrace the reli- 
gious life. These handsome babies, so familiar in real 
life, so familiar to us in photographs, are fading away, 
as if they missed their spiritual godmother, who loved 
them so well that she would not eat unless she were 
looking at them. We saw a ruined theatre, built for 
some royal occasion, which recalled the fact that Maria 
Louisa, second wife of Napoleon, spent the last years 
of her life here. She did not mourn the loss of the 
eagle to whom she had been mated by the politic Met- 
ternich. 

Napoleon loved her well, and was much too good for 
her! Nor did she mourn that unhappy blond child, the 
little King of Rome, whom she did not see after his 
father's fall. She devoted her selfish life to Count Niep- 
perg, her chamberlain, whom she afterward married, and 
her large family of Niepperg children blotted out the 
eaglet. We saw her uninteresting, fat face in several 
portraits. She was unworthy of her Parma violets. 

"I reckon she warn't worth much," said our Western 

33 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

friend. We never saw him again. He met a most 
tragic fate. He was drowned in the falls of the Rhine 
at SchaufThausen. It seemed as if there were not water 
enough to cover him, as he was very tall, and had come, 
as he was fond of saying, "from the Upper Missourah " 
and had an American contempt for the rivers and water- 
falls of Europe. He was exactly in real life what Arte- 
mus Ward makes his heroes — ignorant, a greenhorn, but 
kindly and with a wonderful acuteness. He had made 
us laugh, and we regretted his tragic ending. These 
accidental acquaintances whom one meets in traveling 
reveal to us many a type of the American which, but for 
these episodes, would remain forever unknown ; he has 
curiously enough got blended in with my recollections of 
Northern Italy. 



34 



Venice and Eugenie, Empress of 
the French 

I consider it a piece of unqualified good luck that I 
saw the most fairy-like city of the world, Venice, and 
the most beautiful of women at the same time. 

The month of October, 1869, found us at Venice, 
just in time to see the Empress Eugenie on her way to 
open the Suez Canal. 

De Lesseps was her cousin-german, and she had 
always befriended him ; perhaps to this relationship did 
the ''great ditch-digger" (as his enemies called de Les- 
seps) owe the help given him by France toward this 
important work of his, important to civilization, the 
great canal which gives us an overland route to India. 
It was the most beautiful weather ever seen when we 
landed in Venice, if, indeed, one can be said to land when 
one leaves this earth and rows in a gondola off to Para- 
dise. 

There were no abominations then of steam launches 
in this city by the sea; when the engine which had 
brought us, stopped puffing, there was no further sound, 
all was stillness, excepting the dip of the oar in the 
water — sweetest echo of a sound. 

"I always liked Venice because Mr. Chumley allowed 
me as many chandeliers in my gondola as I wanted," 

35 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

said our modern Mrs. Malaprop. She meant gondoliers, 
poor, dear woman, never mind ! 

But we had all the chandeliers of heaven, for Jupiter 
and Venus were both bright, that night, and Orion and 
the Great Bear took us under their magnificent patron- 
age. We floated on to Danielli's, where our provident 
Italian courier had engaged apartments. Angelo was a 
great man and could wrest a parlor away from a Princess 
if he wished to. It was well he had done so on this 
occasion, for the house was overflowing with Italian, 
French, and Austrian officers. 

It was very kind of Angelo to not tell us that the 
Empress was coming until we had the pleasure of the 
immaculate past for a week. He allowed us (this mod- 
ern Machiavelli) to float in that ether of Venice, old 
Venice undefiled, by any other emotion; for at least 
three days we floated up and down the Great Canal, we 
saw the dear old things, like the Rialto, the Bridge of 
Sighs, the Church of Maria della Salute, the great square 
with St. Theodore in the Crocodile, and the Lion of St. 
Mark's, also the church itself, of that fortunate saint, the 
figures, and the still and the living life of Venice, which 
is all the arts, Music, Painting, Sculpture, and Poetry 
combined. We had visited seventy churches, and I had 
fainted in one of them, before a picture by Tintoretto, 
not from the picture, but simply from fatigue and emo- 
tion, when Angelo entered with his account book for 
Monsieur, and a suggestion that, as there would be illumi- 
nations and fetes, would not Monsieur stay another 
week? 

And then we knew our enjoyments were not to be 
alone Venice, Queen of the Adriatic, but Eugenie, 

36 



VENICE AND EUGENIE 

Empress of France, whom we were to look at, near or 
afar, a great surprise. 

It was neatly done, for Monsieur had intended to move 
on, and I wanted to see Verona and Nuremburg, it was 
a crowded month, that we had before us. But Angelo 
wanted to stay in Venice. The idea of Festa was 
precious to his Italian soul, and he determined for us 
that we should stay (without saying so), and stay we 
did, for the most picturesque, distinguished fortnight of 
our lives. 

Eugenie, Empress of the French, and Venice, too? 

And what is Venice? 

This jewel of art and architecture, this darling of the 
poet and the painter, this mosaic set in aquamarine, 
has the power to overwhelm the new comer with delight 
and amazement. She is the Cleopatra of cities, and 
" custom cannot stale her infinite variety," description 
cannot ruin her. 

Silence, pure and perfect, is the first charm with 
which Venice steals your allegiance. 

We too often forget the constant and unremitting 
service of the slave Fine Ear. 

The eye we rest gradually and often. The nose is a 
pampered creature, and works only when pleased. So 
with the taste ; unless one is Heliogabalus, the taste has 
an easy time of it. But Fine Ear must be ever on the 
alert, even in sleep; he must send a message to the 
drowsy brain if an alien hand touch the door-knob, or a 
mouse creep along the wainscot. Sometimes he takes 
a terrible revenge; all the nerves are his allies, and 
to them he communicates a tremor of overwork — even 
adding in that voice, the voice of the bore, which is 

37 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

heard in the land, aye, in all lands, even this note is 
silenced in Venice, for the "Bride of Quietness" receives 
you with finger on lip and says: 

"Con viso ehe tacendo dicea, Taci !" 

— "with face that silently says, Silence" — she bids you go 
silently through her watery streets, to respect the genius 
of the place. 

We alighted from the noisiest of railways, that which 
tunnels the Apennines; our heads were reeling with 
reverberation, when we became suddenly aware of the 
delicious repose of the Ear. We took our omnibus, 
which was a gondola, and with our trunks before us — 
wretched disillusion, for they breathed of the present — 
we began our Venetian experience. 

Beautiful city above the water, and more beautiful 
city under the water, we sail through it and over it until 
we reach Danielli's Hotel, an old Venetian palace, with 
famous rooms indifferently clean. It looks out on the 
Grand Canal and on the Adriatic, and was quite good 
enough for us ; we loved its rambling surprises, its rooms 
alternately low and lofty, and we liked the stone bal- 
conies, outside the windows, where we sat of an evening 
and watched the busy, picturesque life of the Quay, to 
wonder, to admire, to dream, to rest, to enjoy, always 
silently — these were our duties for the coming week, 
and we performed them bravely. 

The siren wins you here ; she wraps you in her soft, 
cool atmosphere as in a garment. The dip of the oar in 
the water, most musical shadow of a sound, alone breaks 
the charm. Venice leads you on through her majestic 
lines of palace and church, past her gloomy prisons, 

38 



VENICE AND EUGENIE 

never permitting you to tire of her beauty, originality, 
and richness. She has fused all ideas in her own over- 
flowing fancy, and you feel inclined to apotheosize that 
wondrous town. "That city which, though flooded, 
utters no cry for help" — that city which shows you her 
"golden book" — who gives you her gorgeous ceilings 
painted by Paul Veronese, Bassano, and Palma Giovine, 
her walls covered with Titian's, Tintoretto's, Georgi- 
one's, and Bellini's masterpieces. Her architects who 
have produced the wonder of the world, the dream of 
poets and painters, the despair of later builders. In all 
other cities your sightseeing is a fatiguing process ; in 
Venice it is the perfection of repose. The gondola, 
swifter than the fleetest steed, more luxurious than the 
best carriage, travels over the smoothest of roads in 
which there is no jolting. You sit upright or lie at your 
ease beneath the black canopy, which affords the most 
pleasing, necessary shade for the eye. Grandly, you allow 
Venice and her wondrous story, to float past you as you 
gaze on what her former industry and enterprise have 
accomplished — her wealth of Gothic, Moorish, Byzan- 
tine palaces, her churches in the Renaissance and Italian 
Gothic, her sculptures of heroic men and goddess-like 
women, her beautiful Palace of the Doges, her two granite 
pillars with the saint and the lion, and crowning all, 
more lovely than all, her Campanile, rising above the 
city like a glorified spirit of peace and repose. 

The Church of Maria della Salute, which Ruskin 
abuses, is a strange, magnificent thing, "like a piece of 
white coral rising from the sea. ■ * I cannot imagine why 
Ruskin abuses it except from his horror of the Renais- 
sance, which has its failures truly, but Santa Maria della 

39 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

Salute is not one of them. This glorious church, ro- 
tund, grand, bristling with statues, with white angels 
flying from every pinnacle, pompous, magnificent, its 
domes greeting the morning sun, salutes you as you 
begin your journey through the Grand Canal, like the 
genius of Venice herself. The world cannot permit any 
carping critic to decide that it is not beautiful ; as well 
try to decry the corolla of the night-blooming cereus, or 
the color of the cactus-grandiflora, or the perfume of a 
damask rose. 

It appeals to a higher sense than that of criticism, 
the elective right of every human being to admire what 
pleases him. 

So on through the Grand Canal, "that serpent of the 
apocalypse, shining with jewels." As I saw it illuminated 
later on, I shall always remember the house of Lucrezia 
Borgia in blood-red, the Maria della Salute in rose color, 
the Accademia in lilac, and the Rialto in every color of 
the rainbow. You take a walk to the Rialto. It is out of 
character to walk in Venice, still you can do it. It is a 
gay walk through streets full of tempting shops and of 
cheerful, swart Venetians who live out of doors. 

You emerge on the Rialto itself, lined either side with 
shops with a broad street between them, over which 
flows a human stream perpetually. 

Here walk Shylock, and Jessica, and Lorenzo, and 
Antonio; they are the real people, and we are the 
shadows; we shall pass away, but they will walk here 
forever. The square of St. Mark's is the core of 
Venice, the scene of its life and movement! What a 
place to "go a-shopping" is this famous square! Beads 
from Murano, Byzantine mosaics, turquoise ornaments 

4 o 



VENICE AND EUGENIE 

of Oriental fashion, gold chains of Venice; long, slender, 
and delicate goblets, with serpents wound round them ; 
winged lions for your watch-chains ; rings with Ricordo 
di Venezia (useless request — as if you could ever forget 
it!) for a legend; shops full of bric-a-brac, cabinets 
which belonged to Lucrezia Borgia, fans which Jessica 
may have once flirted, pictures, photographs, and all the 
prettiest, most Oriental, most original jewelry in the 
world. Take a pot of gold when you walk around the 
Piazza. 

Alas the day, there are ninety churches in Venice! 
Churches are hard on the constitution and the back. 
One needs several lives and a spine that knows no weak- 
ness, where frescoes and marbles and immortal pictures 
and monuments to the doges alternately claim your at- 
tention. 

The Frari, Gesuiti, Giovanni de Paolo, St. Mark's, 
Maria della Salute, and Maria dell' Orto, rich in Tinto- 
rettos, alone remain on my memory, that poor curtain 
over which these brilliant images pass so quickly. 

The Frari is certainly a very beautiful church with its 
twelve pillars and lofty dome; there are some peculiar 
and valuable monuments to the doges deserving of study, 
if only from their queerness. One erected to the Doge 
Giovanni Pesaro looks strangely familiar to American eyes. 
Huge negroes in tattered garments — the black marble 
skin shining through the white marble clothing — the 
negroes bearing cotton bales on their woolly heads ; over 
these, in stately repose, lies the marble effigy of the 
doge who, I suppose, ''made money in cotton." This 
church is disfigured by two tasteless monuments to 
Titian and Canova. 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

The Gesuiti is sumptuously poor and magnificently 
ugly. Its curtains of marble, its verde antique columns 
inlaid with white, are marvels of labor to no pur- 
pose; it is all feeble and pretentious, but it owns an 
"Assumption" by Tintoretto, which is enough for one 
church. 

San Giovanni e Paolo, the Westminster Abbey of 
Venice, is spacious and magnificent, filled with rich archi- 
tectural monuments, lovely bas-reliefs, statues, and 
noble pictures. 

In a chapel of this church, in 1867, was burned 
Titian's great picture of "St. Peter, Martyr/' for 
which Venice refused an offer of fifty thousand dollars 
from the King of Bavaria. 

San Giovanni is so vast that its treasures do not crowd 
it. There is still room for an army of worshipers. 

As for St. Mark's, who can describe it? Imagine its 
one detail of five hundred porphyry and verde antique 
columns, its Saracenic gates, its horseshoe-shaped trel- 
lises ! 

There is a luxury and prodigality of ornament about 
St. Mark's; it is so suggestive of the reckless caprice of 
an Eastern monarch, who buries his favorite beneath 
purple mantles, caskets of jewels, perfumes, spices, and 
choicest fabrics, that its first impression is a confusing 
one. 

But as you sit in the gay public square sipping your 
ice, and see the evening shadows descend, softening 
those five domes, those gilded capitals, the whole thing 
takes form and shape, and becomes forevermore the 
reigning beauty of your soul. I dare not go inside, 
where scarlet is lavishly laid on dead gold, where ame- 

42 




(Dmfitwto 



utaenw 



e in S869. 



VENICE AND EUGENIE 

thyst rivals ruby. Language was made before St. 
Mark's, and the Tower of Babel did not suggest it. 
There are no words sufficient unto it. 

Over that low, broad, delicious arch stand the famous 
bronze horses — the only horses in Venice, and these have 
traveled far. Once they reared their iron hoofs over 
Nero's triumphal arch; thence they followed Constan- 
tine to his own imperial city. From Constantinople the 
Doge Dandolo brought them to Venice. For five cen- 
turies they stood in this, their golden stall, when Napoleon 
harnessed them to his arrogant triumphal car and drove 
them to Paris, where they baited for a while in the Place 
Carrousel ; but their nostrils snuffed the Eastern air, and 
in 1815 they trotted back to Venice, where now let 
them ever remain, adding another dignity to the proud 
old church. 

Opposite St. Mark's rises the graceful Campanile, 
around its airy heights fly the sacred pigeons of Venice. 
These fat-breasted fellows, fed at the expense of the city, 
are like many of us, living on the virtues of their ances- 
tors, for while Admiral Dandolo was besieging Candia 
at the commencement of the thirteenth century, some 
carrier-pigeons brought him important news from the 
Island, and he despatched messages of his success to 
Venice by the same winged telegraph. Since then their 
descendants have ever been the pampered favorites of 
the Venetians. They perch on the domes of St. Mark's, 
they are intimate with the two vulcans who strike the 
hours in La Torre dell' Orologio, and they flit undis- 
mayed about the granite column where St. Theodore 
stands majestically on his crocodile. They are not afraid 
of the terrible winged lion who, from the other column, 

43 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

has watched this glorious harbor so long, and they add, 
by the shifting luster of their restless necks, and by 
the grace of their perpetual flight, another beauty to a spot 
which of all others in the world needs such aid the least. 

If I had the tongue of men and angels I should try 
to describe the resistless charm of the Palace of the 
Doges, or the long line of columns which so splendidly 
holds up the Biblioteca Antica, magnificent structure of 
the sixteenth century, and the grand staircase where 
poor old Marino Faliero, in his eightieth year, was 
beheaded as a traitor. On the highest landing of these 
steps the doges were crowned. 

All the world was a picture in those days. No won- 
der that Titian and Tintoretto were possible. They had 
something to paint, those old fourteenth century peo- 
ple, when the world was all agitation, noise, passion, 
tyranny, and tumult, emperors, popes, doges, Guelphs, 
and Ghibellines, when people dressed in purple and fine 
linen; when it was some dignity, honor, emolument, 
and grace to be a great man, either senator, soldier, 
poet, sculptor, or painter. No one can enumerate the 
treasures of these palaces and churches ; Venice has been 
so unlike other cities in her form of government, her 
curious independent history, that long, remarkable story 
of the doges, her luxuriant school of art, it of course 
must be the casket of much that is almost incredibly 
curious. Venice was the home of the three arts of 
design; " while her streets, without noise or dust, are 
like the galleries of an architectural museum." Her 
workers in marble have covered the "stones of Venice" 
not only with immortal cherub faces and splendid 
statues, but with an outcropping of beautiful marble 

44 



VENICE AND EUGENIE 

vegetation which consoles one for the green things which 
grow out of the earth in other towns. 

The Accademia delle Belle Arte is rich in Titians. 
The "Presentation of the Virgin in the Temple" is 
wonderfully delightful. 

A dear little girl of six years, with her pretty hair 
braided down her back, trots up the grand staircase, on 
which stand the gorgeous priests, the magnificent citi- 
zens, the curious lookers-on. She carries with her all 
the unconscious grace of youth, all the sweet, chubby 
outline of a healthy childhood. She must be taken up and 
kissed for her sweet sincerity, her utter artlessness. 
Such was the painter's idea of the Virgin Mary in her 
childhood. 

The grand vista of the temple, and the glorious sky 
beyond, by the painter's art, suggest the greatness of 
her future as she mounts ever upward ; but now for the 
moment she is a sweet, human child, better and dearer 
than anything else in the world. Here, too, is the grand 
"Assumption," one of the five great pictures of the 
world. It is the most religious picture! How the 
Virgin floats upward toward the majesty which dazzles 
and absorbs her! Copies are of no avail, they give no 
idea of such a picture. Near it hangs in somber contrast 
the "Entombment." Death found the artist at work on 
this picture. The pencil did not fall from those industri- 
ous and clever fingers until Titian was ninety-nine years 
old, when the plague carried off the still vigorous man. 
He has been described as the "most happy, most for- 
tunate, most healthy of his species, heaven having 
awarded him nothing but favors and felicities; a man 
who worthily enjoyed his good fortune. Very courte- 

45 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

ous, endowed with rare politeness, and with the sweet- 
est ways and manners, he takes men well, and he takes 
life well." 

Such a life seems to transcend humanity, it is almost 
God-like. Over this magnificent old age, however, the 
clouds began to gather. First, in the terrible sorrow of 
an unworthy son, the priest Pomponio Vicellio, who 
robbed him in his old age; secondly, as he saw his 
beloved Venice sink into that abyss of corruption and 
decay, so powerfully pictured by the wretch Aretino, 
in whose base life, the friendship of Titian seems the 
one redeeming thing. 

The necessity of pleasure had extinguished the spirit 
of industry and enterprise in the Venetians during the 
century Titian filled, and nothing noble remained but 
their love of art. Titian must have been glad to die! 
Seeing his triumphant warrior city ending through "non- 
chalance and voluptuousness" in ruin, he knew that 
imagination would decline, that art would become insipid 
and circumscribed. 

A modern writer speaks eloquently of that unique 
moment "between heroic and epicurean eras, when men, 
having conquered, stop to enjoy and adorn their lives." 

At this moment "blossoms the transient and delicate 
flower of art." Then flourish painters and sculptors. 
All adornments are called in "magnificently to enliven 
the senses and the intellect." Then, too, often comes 
that enervating luxury in which art declines as surely 
as a flower fades in an overheated room. 

Let us be grateful for those precious moments on the 
great clock of history which gave us Titian and Tinto- 
retto. 

4 6 



VENICE AND EUGENIE 

One must go to Venice to appreciate Tintoretto, if 
indeed only to see the " Miracle of Tintoretto," one of 
those amazing pictures which are among the sensations 
of a lifetime. You need no catalogue to find it ; it finds 
you, it runs to meet you. You need no extraordinary 
ability to admire, you are not required to have any 
knowledge of the art of painting, you are only requested 
to look, admire, wonder, and worship. It is the story 
of the deliverance of a condemned slave, by the interven- 
tion of the patron saint of Venice. 

This picture, a crowd without confusion, and move- 
ment without hurry, is a miracle indeed of color, and 
power, and commanding vigor of execution. Also the 
" Madonna between Sts. Cosmo and Damian," a "Para- 
dise" in the Ducal Palace, the "Last Supper," the "Mar- 
riage in Cana, ' ' a wonderful picture. 

His best works are all at Venice. One comes here 
to see them. They call him the "Michel Angelo" of 
color, "II Furioso," and a dozen other names; he is a 
hurricane, a tornado of genius, except that he has left 
no ruins, only beauty behind him. His "Heaven and 
Hell," a tremendous picture in the church of Maria dell' 
Orto, has in it an accidental likeness of Garibaldi in the 
seventh heaven, which delights the sexton, evidently a 
liberal Italian. It is said that even Titian paid Tinto- 
retto the compliment of being jealous of him, but after- 
ward became his admirer and friend. How serene, rich, 
and silvery is Paul Veronese after Tintoretto. It is like 
going from an American autumn to an English sum- 
mer. He painted Venice in its patrician aspect. Those 
beautiful, calm women, so perfectly dressed, the splen- 
did old men in brilliant robes, the gay scarlet housings, 

47 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

his balconies, and his blue skies, give these pictures 
wondrous charm. His " Venice Queen" in the Ducal 
Palace is one of these priceless gems. 

All these defy description. Some forty of his pic- 
tures adorn the church. Of all these the "Miracle" 
seems to me still the "Miracle"! Engravings falsify 
these pictures; copies almost ruin them. 

Mind, warmth, movement, vigor, impetuosity, and 
overwhelming richness of conception give the pictures 
of Tintoretto a place in your gallery of sensations which 
is unique. 

How many pictures Tintoretto painted is not given 
me to say. 

One must live as long as Titian did, and possess the 
robustness of Tintoretto, to even form a conception of 
the treasures of Venice. 

The accumulations of the Ducal Palace appall me as 
I attempt to recollect them. 

Not that I am in danger of imagining more than I saw, 
but that I am in danger of forgetting everything, in such 
a treasure house. 

That grand marble staircase, with its sculptures and 
its memories of processions which filled it with color and 
movement during the thirteenth and the agitated four- 
teenth, and the luxurious fifteenth centuries. Who can 
even imagine it? 

The splendid state saloons with heavy gilded ceilings, 
whose upholsterers, and painters, and carvers were Tinto- 
retto, Titian, Veronese, and Pordenone, where Venice 
recorded herself at her proudest moment, her "unique 
moment" between ripeness and decay — the Ducal Pal- 
ace holds these and more. 

4 8 



VENICE AND EUGENIE 

I am glad to mention a disappointment here, for one 
emotion becomes tiresome. The veiled picture of 
Marino Faliero among the doges, which has pointed so 
many morals, is very unobtrusive and not at all impress- 
ive. You search a long time amid that line of dingy 
portraits before finding it. It seems to encourage us 
Americans to make treason a very insignificant crime, in 
which we need no encouragement. 

We made several visits to the Lido, that home of 
Armenian learning and piety, and gave many a day to 
its renowned retirement. All readers will remember 
Lord Byron's connection with it; and the learned fathers 
include his handsome face with their own in their little 
photographic album of portraits. It was here that the 
energetic American traveler uttered the justly cele- 
brated remark, ''Show me everything you have got here 
in five minutes." Imagine the disgust of the old 
Armenian bishop, proud of his convent and its treasures! 
A man of learning so vast, that the age seemed to him 
scarcely long enough for inquiry, a man who regards 
Cheops as a modern incident, and the discovery of 
America as a fly on the wall — how must he have regarded 
this superbly impertinent visitor? Let us hope that he 
banished him altogether from his mind. 

But it is not alone to the art of Venice, as illustrated 
by pictures, that the visitor must bow. Her enamel and 
her mosaics are quite as wonderful. We must follow up 
the art of glass and pay a visit to the factories at Murano. 
The first fugitives who fled to the Islands of the sea- 
girt city and who made salt from its lagunes brought the 
"art of glass" with them. An art which could be car- 
ried on the "tips of the fingers," and which depended 

49 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

on fancy, dexterity, and a little sand, could be easily 
transported; much more easily, alas! than the delicate 
fabric which they produce can bear moving. In 1090 there 
are records of the skill of the Venetians in this delicate 
art. In 1291 the factories and furnaces increased so 
rapidly that they were banished to Murano, an island 
and suburb of the city. 

The republican aristocrats dearly loved the achieve- 
ments of the glass-blowers, and gave them peculiar privi- 
leges. The Council of Ten visited them officially day 
and night, but treated them with favor so long as they 
staid at home. A Muranese who taught his art to for- 
eigners, however, was terribly punished. If he escaped 
with it to foreign lands, he was followed and put to 
death. 

The daughters of the foremen were permitted to wed 
with the patrician sons of Venice, and the Muranese 
were allowed to follow first after the doge when he went 
out to wed the Adriatic. In the eleventh and twelfth 
centuries the Byzantine artists taught the secret of 
enamel to Venice. The mosaic work became then as 
famous as the blown glass. But this industry decayed 
with all else Venetian through the seventeenth and 
eighteenth centuries. About 1836 it began to revive, 
and to the well-known artistic lawyer, Dr. Salviati, who 
may well be translated "savior" of this beautiful art, 
does Venice owe the restoration of one of her ancient 
glories. Pictures are copied by these skillful workers in 
this imperishable material to the utmost perfection. 

The Queen of England gave them large orders for 
the Wolsey chapel at Windsor, which they have filled 
with exquisite success, and for the mausoleum at Frog- 

50 



VENICE AND EUGENIE 

more. They are now repairing the splendid mosaics of 
St. Mark's, some of which are almost in ruins. The 
next undertaking is to be the "Apocalypse," which was 
the grand work of the mosaicists of the fifteenth cen- 
tury, from cartoons of Titian, Tintoretto, and Paul 
Veronese. For this work the Venetian government 
pays them twenty thousand francs a year. 

The workers in glass have given a word to the lan- 
guage. Why is fiasco a synonym for failure? 

Because, essaying to make a goblet, the workman 
sometimes fails, and burying his long tube in the molten 
glass he blows a flask, which requires only a poorer art, 
(flask in Italian is fiasco). 

So fiasco (a flask) became the synonym ot failure. 

Salviati has given much of his genius to the revival 
of blown glass, and now every well-furnished dinner 
table can boast some proof of his cultivated skill. The 
authorities in antique glass maintain that Salviati can 
to-day give you all the wonders and all the beauties of 
the once lost "art of glass" of the sixteenth century. 
He can give you, at his famous shop in the corner of 
the Square of St. Mark's, chandeliers which bear flowers 
in natural tints, growing from their pendent branches, 
goblets of ruby and opal, roses of sapphire and tur- 
quoise, finger-bowls with roots of water plants trailing 
through their sea-green waves, dessert plates with opaque 
mother-of-pearl centers fringed with transparent ruffles 
of rose color, lily-shaped vases, ice-frosted flagons, mir- 
rors framed in mirror, filigree decanters, and long- 
stemmed, flower-like glasses, with jeweled serpents 
climbing to the brim. We all know what Salviati glass 
has become, the prettiest in the world. 

5i 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

I must, however, enter upon memories more de- 
cidedly personal. Angelo had condescended, at last, to 
explain that we were to see Venice under the greatest 
and most singular advantage, under, indeed, the only 
mantle which can improve the Queen of the Adriatic, 
that of illumination, and that he had gondola and per- 
mit, all ready for us, yes ! We were to follow her, and 
catch her beautiful profile all along the Grand Canal ! 
A thing to see ! And a place to see it in ! 

So the end came, and we were not so far from the 
royal cortege but that we could see Victor Emmanuel, 
with Eugenie at his side, float by in the track of the 
ages, through that long night of music and lime-light, 
and gondolas. The ugliest King and the most beautiful 
Empress in all the world ! It was a fairy tale ! We had 
seen her before, on the deck of the Aigle, yes, Eugenie 
in all her beauty, the proud Empress of the French, had 
been moored on her yacht, the Aigle, in front of 
Danielli's Hotel. We saw her plainly walking up and 
down on its deck. One Royalty after another had 
gathered there to accompany her to the opening of the 
Suez Canal. In the evening Victor Emmanuel gave a 
fete in her honor, and we were allowed to follow in our gon- 
dola. The glittering procession, accompanied by music, 
airs from Otello and I duo Foscari, which breathed of 
Venice and her old renown, preceded us. It was a pro- 
longed opera. "I am never merry when I hear sweet 
music," was the exquisite remark of Jessica, little ducat- 
stealing apostate, to her lover Lorenzo, under the "patines 
of bright gold." I felt, as the children say, like crying 
all through this splendid night, when the palace of 
Lucrezia Borgia shone in blood-red light, and the Rialto 

52 




(Dm/wen (Duaen/e mttz i/Ae ^Swnce Jrm^e^tti/. 



VENICE AND EUGENIE 

was hung with jewels, and Santa Maria della Salute 
blushed in rose colors, and the lofty tower of St. Mark's 
and the statue of St. Theodore were in lavender. It was 
brilliant with the beauty of night, and even all that was 
left in shadow, the waters of the canal, a mirror for all this 
loveliness, gave us back a strange ideal city, under the 
water! It was indeed ' 'Italian festa" as a model of the 
old Bucentovo, after one with which the old doges used to 
wed the Adriatic, preceded the Empress, the fair woman 
who was so soon to bless the wedding of India and the 
West; nothing that was symbolic, nothing that was 
eloquent was left out of this night. Poor woman, poor 
Eugenie, where is she now? Our Lady of Vicissitudes! 
She, in one year after all this splendor, was a fugitive 
from her throne, and I saw her again in her weeds, a 
childless widow, in London at the time of the Queen's 
Jubilee, with a face on which sorrow had set its seal. 
Did she remember that brilliant evening at Venice, or 
the more imperial one at Ismailia when, dressed as Cata- 
lina Cornaro, she opened the great ball with the Vice- 
roy of Egypt. She had that splendid dress made in 
Venice from the famous picture. 

What days! We had followed up Titian and Tinto- 
retto, and had spent hours in exploring the palaces of 
Venice, and doing or being done by its churches. Every 
hour in Venice is a festa; it is all music, picture, charm, 
and, as we began with Eugenie, we topped off with Fred- 
eric, Prince of Prussia, going to Suez, and many another 
prince, now gone over to the majority. I am glad to 
have seen Eugenie in this supreme moment of her bril- 
liant career. She is framed in my memory with that 
glorious Venetian company who have filled history and 

53 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

the drama, and none will have a stranger story to tell on 
the banks of the Styx than Eugenie, Empress of the 
French. 

We were glad when that brilliant night was ended, 
so full was it of memories, we dreamed of Desdemona 
and the Moor; we seemed to see the doges wedding the 
Adriatic; we went over the sorrows of the prisoners 
under the Piombi, we visited the terrible letter-box, 
"the lion's wreath." Before us, gleaming, was the 
Lion of St. Mark's, with his paw on the world, and 
near him St. Theodore on his slippery crocodile. All 
around us was Venice, in interest, and charm, and 
novelty, unequaled on earth. 

Later on I was to hear from Lord Houghton's lips 
his account of meeting the beautiful Empress at Port 
Said, where she asked him on board her yacht. 

The Empress Eugenie and the Emperor of Austria 
were the most distinguished guests of the Khedive on 
this occasion, but the Eastern Monarch had asked Lord 
Houghton also to be his guest, and had given him a 
house and carriage at Cairo, paying all his expenses. 

In entering de Lesseps's "great ditch," the Empress 
led the way on the Aigle. The Empress said she only 
regretted not being able to go on to India, which has 
been the dream of her life. 

"Ah! how can your Queen have such a delightful 
dominion and not go there, ' ' she said to Lord Houghton. 

Abdul Kedir stood behind the Empress at the reli- 
gious services. These had to be somewhat composite. A 
Moslem pulpit turned toward Mecca and a Catholic altar, 
the Moslem began the prayer with covered heads. The 
Catholic service followed, all heads uncovered. 

54 



VENICE AND EUGENIE 

Only one pretty sentiment was uttered: ''Our enter- 
prise has but two enemies, sand and space." 

"This fete at Ismailia could not have cost less than two 
hundred thousand pounds," says Lord Houghton, "but 
the Viceroy has six or seven millions sterling of income, 
so he can stand it." 

It was poor Egypt that had to stand it ! 

"I saw the waters of the Red Sea and the Mediter- 
ranean meet. Their respective fishes must have been 
rather astonished to make acquaintance with each 
other," wrote Lord Houghton. 

"How many wives has your lordship? " asked of him 
the many-married Sultan. 

"I never had but one wife, Your Majesty, but she 
was so nice I wished she was half a dozen," answered 
Lord Houghton. 

No one could appreciate the Empress Eugenie better 
than Lord Houghton, and he described her as a gifted 
and amiable woman. 

"I belong," said she, "to the family of the Cid and 
the family of Don Quixote." She, however, did not 
know English literature as well as Spanish, for she told 
Lord Houghton that she admired his works more than 
those of Shakespeare ! 

She was deceived in political matters, but he thought 
her errors were caused by noble and generous senti- 
ments. Her great sorrows have been courageously 
borne, she has been on a level with her misfortunes. 

Her starry dream changed into a horrible nightmare, 
but no woman, deprived of her only child, has shown 
more dignity in her sorrow. The very excess of her 
misfortunes has disarmed criticism, and when she passes 

55 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

through the city where she reigned with such consum- 
mate grace, there is a "truce of God," as one of her 
biographers says, "between all parties and all the jour- 
nals to avoid distressing her." 

Truly Spanish in character, impassioned for religion 
and glory, she loves all that is beautiful and chivalrous. 
She is very dear to Queen Victoria and to the Princess 
Beatrice; her clear, firm handwriting does not even 
tremble beneath her weight of woe. She finds her pres- 
ent life almost that of a religious recluse, but she remem- 
bered the world and its duties well enough to send the 
pearls of Hortense to the Princess Letitia on her mar- 
riage to the Prince Amedeo, Due d' Aosta, where I saw 
them worn at the wedding. 

How will Eugenie be remembered by posterity? 

"As the Bride of the Notre Dame? As the most 
beautiful woman in the world? As the Chatelaine of 
the Tuileries? As the courageous heroine of Orsini's 
bombs? As a Sister of Charity at the Hospitals of St. 
Antoine? As the Juno reigning over an Olympus of 
Emperors and Kings at the Exposition of 1867? No, 
as the mother who weeps and prays for the young boy 
who fell in Zululand." Such is the magnificent resume 
of Saint Armand. 

But I shall remember a beautiful, tall figure, standing 
alone on the deck of a yacht, framed by Venice and the 
Adriatic, a Queen of Beauty in her glorious prime, in 
a frame, unsurpassed, in the year 1869. 

And I shall remember a sad face, framed with white 
hair and a black veil, in 1887, which still bore the peer- 
less contours of that countenance which had once ruled 
the world of fashion, the fair, noble face of Eugenie. 

56 



Orleans and Turin 

When I read in the papers of a duel between the 
young Princes, Henri d'Orleans and the Count de Turin, 
I can but remember that I saw the latter and his 
brothers, the sons of the Due d'Aosta (Amadeo, King 
of Spain, youngest son of Victor Emmanuel), at perhaps 
the most picturesque moment of their lives, and it was a 
curious occasion, too, for it was at the wedding of their 
father to his niece, Letitia Bonaparte. 

And it was whispered that the Prince Emmanuel, as 
he was then called, was himself in love with his cousin, 
who was soon to become his stepmother. 

I imagine here an Anglo-Saxon son would have 
sulked. Young men in England and America seldom 
assist at their father's second nuptials. 

But these amiable Italian boys made themselves the 
masters of the revels, and nobly led off in all matters of 
decorating the city, and the plans for making the wed- 
ding correspond to the ideas of old Italian festa, in 
Turin. I rose early one morning to look out of my 
window on an Italian sunrise, which had for its pitce 
de resistance Monte Rosa, whose ivory peak the sun 
gallantly kisses the last thing before he retires for the 
night and the first thing in the morning. I was repaid 
for this matutinal duty by seeing in the streets of Turin 
a spectacle of almost equal brilliancy and of more human 

57 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

interest. It was the young bride, to be, Letitia, on 
horseback, coming in from her mother's residence, 
about two miles from Turin, to take up her residence at 
the Palazzo Madama, in the city, whence she was mar- 
ried the next day. For escort she had one hundred young 
horsemen, the gallant nobles of Turin, headed by the sons 
of Amadeo, her cousins. She wore a scarlet habit and 
black hat with plumes. It was a mediaeval picture. In 
spite of all the magnificence I was to see afterward, this 
picture remains untouched in my memory. 

But these young horsemen had another surprise in 
view. After the wedding breakfast, the programme read 
that all the bridal party and all the Kings and Queens 
should drive in state through the city to the Square Vit- 
torio Emanuele, where a lofty platform had been erected 
in the shape of an immense basket of flowers, the arched 
handle of which was covered with roses. Seats for 
thirty thousand people were built around this immense 
basket, on the top of which seats were prepared for the 
bride and the Queens. On a dais behind them stood 
the groom, the King, and other gentlemen, the royal 
family of Portugal, and the Bonapartes. 

Here the Syndic of Turin was to be received as he 
offered a bouquet and a loyal address to the bride and 
groom. We secured seats in the best places on one of 
the platforms, and gazed our fill at the exquisite floral 
decorations and the rosy balloon floating in air, held by 
ropes of roses. 

But down the streets came a royal cortege led by 
Prince Emmanuel. Two hundred young horsemen 
dressed in the costume of Prince Eugene approached. 
Oh ! what a pretty sight it was ! They wore powdered 

58 



ORLEANS AND TURIN 

wigs, the little three-cornered hat which fits so grace- 
fully on the head, green velvet coats, embroidered in 
gold, with full skirts, knee breeches, and silk stockings, 
a gala body of the pride and glory of Italian youth. 
Two hundred had escorted the King, who drove after 
them to the foot of the dai's. They drew up their horses 
in a hollow square, while he descended from his carriage 
and then mounted to the dais. 

When lo! more music and two hundred men in coats 
of blue, arrived as escort to the Queen, who, amid 
bravos and vivas which shook the air, ascended to the 
flower basket. 

And then two hundred more ; this time their coats 
were of bright red, the Napoleon color. These last two 
hundred arrived escorting the bride, who ascended her 
temporary throne. 

Then the three Gardes a Reine took up their posi- 
tion, so that their coats of green, red, and blue inter- 
laced the colors of the Italian flag. We, who looked 
on, saw to our delight that the Queen, in delicate lilac, 
sat on one side; the bride, who wore a bright prawn 
pink silk dress, looked a very Bonaparte, and on the other 
side was the Queen of Portugal, in a delicate mignonette 
green, a lovely creation of Worth, thus making another 
combination of color which had been evidently carefully 
considered. 

The Queen of Portugal, youngest daughter of Victor 
Emmanuel, is a red-haired Princess. I thought her very 
pretty, and admired her taste in dress at the wedding, in 
which she shone in deep blue and a sapphire crown. 
She is very fond of dress, and is blamed for her extrava- 
gance, but she always looks charmingly, and has the 

59 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

courage of her race. She has saved two lives from 
drowning with her own right royal white arm. 

But we who looked on were also listening to the most 
charming music and were watching the King of Italy 
talking to his brother-in-law, King of Portugal. The 
bridegroom stood behind the chair of his bride. The 
Queen smilingly talked to the Princess Matilde, while 
"Plon Plon" — otherwise Prince Jerome, father to the 
bride — stood gloomily behind the Queen, knitting his 
brows in the Napoleonic, impressive manner. 

It was a glorious masquerade for these young Princes, 
and admirably done. After it was all over, and the six 
hundred soldiers on horseback had turned, and had 
melted into the Italian sunset, we still gazing at the 
afterglow on Monte Rosa, I was joined by an Italian 
gentleman, who told us that a party of the young 
Gardes a Reine would dine at our hotel, and that we 
could see them at shorter range. 

So we saw the beautiful Italian eyes flashing under 
the powdered wigs — it was very becoming, that dress — 
and afterward the Marquis d'Azellio pointed out to me 
Prince Emmanuel, him who appears in our picture 
papers of to-day as wearing a helmet such as the one 
Achilles wore when he sat "sulking in his tent." He is 
very handsome, tall, and stately. They have all (these 
children of Amade"o) inherited their mother's beauty, as 
well as her immense fortune. She was remotely of 
Dutch blood, and the greater spread of their stalwart 
figures is due perhaps to this inheritance, for Amadeo, 
although rather tall, was extremely thin and looked 
very delicate. 

But their courageous blood showed in all of them, 

60 



ORLEANS AND TURIN 

these children of Victor Emmanuel, as long as they had 
body enough to carry around their souls. Fortunately, 
these young Princes have height and breadth and 
thickness proportionate. 

The death of the bridegroom, Amadeo, one year 
after his marriage, at the early age of forty- four, left the 
eldest son, the Duke d'Aosta. He is heir presumptive 
to the throne of Italy, should the Prince of Naples die 
childless, but whatever may be his fate, or his costume, 
I doubt if he ever looks as handsome as he did on his 
father's second wedding day. Nor could any one appear 
more amiable than he did. 

I have a photograph before me of that painful statue 
in Turin, the group of the dying horse falling under the 
Duke of Genoa, which is always avoided by strangers, 
but adored by Italians, as a memento of that unfortunate 
Prince who so felt his defeat at the battle of Novara 
that he died of a broken heart — Prince Ferdinand, Duke 
of Genoa. He was the father of their beloved Queen, 
their Marguerite of Savoy, and every cab-driver takes 
off his hat to this gentleman soldier. His brother, the 
King Victor Emmanuel, loved him intensely. They 
have strong family affections in the Italian royal family. 
They are a noble race, and, although the late duel was 
a foolish affair, one cannot but be glad that the noble 
cock sparrows fought it out. 

There is but one descendant of this warlike race — 
Don Carlos of Portugal — who seems to prefer peace to 
war. He is fat, like his father, inert, and pleasure lov- 
ing. He has a very vigorous spouse, daughter of the 
Count de Paris. Her sympathies go with her cousin, 
doubtless, the young son of the Due de Chartres. So 

61 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

one fears that Don Carlos has to listen to some curtain 
lectures just about now. 

But the Count de Turin probably felt the blood ot 
the Re Galantuomo kindle in his young veins, as, with 
his noble followers, Colonel Aveogardo de Quinto, Colonel 
Vicino Pallavicino, Count of Avegliana [how splendid and 
musical these names are?], he reached the field of honor. 
No wonder that the Italian blood has leaped wildly at 
his victory, and that the royal family of Italy has been 
congratulated, — first, that no life was lost; secondly, 
that the so-called insulted honor of Italy has been 
avenged. 

We, of the cooler blood, the Anglo-Saxon blood, do 
not think that possible to thus avenge honor, nor, if it 
were, that two young men, gallant and courageous, 
could mend the matter much by fighting each other. 
The blood of the Orleanist has proved its valor on 
many a well-fought field, that of the Sardinian has never 
known the meaning of the word fear; therefore it would 
seem as if apologies and explanations might have served 
in place of cold steel. 

The duello belongs to the age of Prince Eugene, in 
which romantic and becoming dress I first saw the Count 
de Turin; he must have been scarcely twenty at that 
time, a mere boy and a very handsome one. I observe 
in the papers that he went to the duel in a very different 
dress, a black frock coat with a white waistcoat, and had 
his trousers turned up h V Anglaise upon patent-leather 
shoes. He wore a straw hat, which is by no means a 
helmet. 

Oh, shades of chivalry! Why, if the duel must be 
fought, did not Henri d'Orleans wear the glorious white 

62 




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¥/eorye ,9? ^MawA in </864. 



ORLEANS AND TURIN 

cockade of the Bourbons? Why did he not rehabilitate 
Louis XV, with his "powdered curls aflying?" Why 
did they not both dress out of one of Dumas's novels? 

Prince Henri d* Orleans "was dressed in a suit of blue 
serge, and a white waistcoat also, with a straw hat and 
tanned shoes." 

There is something mediaeval and fine, however, when 
we picture the two kingly youths stripping off coats and 
waistcoats, as, while facing each other, they listened to 
the terms of the duel, read by Count de Leontieff, 
addressing them as Mes Seigneurs. 

"Prince Henri attacked immediately with fiery impa- 
tience" [it sounds like Amadis de Gaul]. That is fine. 

"The Count de Turin, the taller man of the two, had 
his sword attached to his wrist by a leather thong ; he 
fenced in the Italian fashion, keeping the sword in a 
straight line, with the arm stretched to its utmost limit." 

It might have been Emanuele Filiberto facing Fran- 
cis I. 

It was evident that the duel was to be a fierce one 
from the first, a V outrance! 

Now we begin to sympathize with this insult to 
chronology. 

Courage and hot young blood, they are the same in all 
the centuries. Women smile and weep and wave their 
handkerchiefs. Poets sing of the combat, and the trum- 
peters sound the "Tra lira lira." It is the old, dear 
story of Roncesvalles, of the seige of Orleans, of Solfer- 
ino, of Waterloo, of Five Forks, of the Charge of the 
Six Hundred, of the "men who fired the shot heard 
round the world" — yes. 

No matter how or where, no matter what shaped hat 

63 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

or what weapon or what cause, courage is always beau^- 
tiful. His Royal Highness, Prince Victor Emmanuel of 
Savoy Aosta, Count of Turin, America salutes you. 
You have leaped into fame, you are worthy to wear the 
livery of Prince Eugene, you are doubtless worthy of 
that Re Galantuomo who leaped from the saddle to a 
throne in the Quirinal. But we cannot but hope you 
will take a better way of showing these splendid traits, 
the inherited valor of your noble blood. Keep that 
strong right arm of yours intact to defend United Italy. 
Be worthy of Garibaldi, the saint and savior of Italy. 
Think of him as he landed in i860 at Marsala. Remem- 
ber how he saluted Victor Emmanuel at the Volturna as 
King of Italy. Remember Rosalino Pio, Cavour, Maz- 
zini; be statesman as well as soldier. 

Prince Henri d'Orleans, remember your young father, 
who, in 1862, offered his sword to the cause of liberty 
in the United States; remember your great uncle, the 
Prince de Joinville, who, in his letter to General McClel- 
lan, said these most memorable words : ' ' My nephews, 
the Count de Paris and the Duke de Chartres, desiring 
that first privilege, that last touch to the education of a 
Prince, to draw their swords in a noble cause, desire to 
enter the service of the United States as aides to Gen- 
eral McClellan in the field." 

And no knights of the days of chivalry, no heroes of 
the round table, or of Agincourt, were more brave, more 
patient, more soldierly, than these two Princes of the 
House of Orleans. There was not a private in the field, 
fighting for an idea, for home and country, who might 
not have taken a lesson from them. 

And so we float from the straw hat back to the 

64 



ORLEANS AND TURIN 

chdpeau bras of Prince Eugene, and conclude that valor 
is of all ages, the friendly hand clasp at the end (as 
the two old friends ended their gloomy spell of lunging 
at each other) shows that good blood and brave hearts 
are first to forgive and to forget. 

Prince Henri d'Orleans, lying wounded on the ground, 
stretches his hand to the Sardinian, and says: "Mon- 
seignor, permit me to take your hand." 

It is not quite tragic enough to compare it to Sir 
Philip Sidney and the glass of water, but if it reminds us 
of that gallant chronicle it has not happened in vain. 

We can think coolly, now that neither young life was 
lost, of how glad we are that it is over, and hope that 
they will never, never do so any more. 



65 



Legends of Aix and Miolan 

The year 1888 was a very full and gay season at Aix, 
and memorable to me for many reasons. The Queen 
Marguerite was at Courmayeur, on the Italian side of the 
Alps. We often heard of her heroic ascents, and we 
seemed near to the charming creature. We were am- 
bitious to go on later to the royal wedding of Amadeo, 
which we did, and we threw in one bitter experience 
at Miolan. 

From Aix-les-Bains to Tresserves is one of the most 
charming drives possible. It is also an agreeable walk 
along the fields through vineyards and chestnut groves. 
There is a fine park at Tresserves, and all sorts of beau- 
ties combine to make it ever attractive; fresh rivulets 
run through the green grass; hedges of beechnuts 
through which scamper rabbits shut off the grand villas 
of the rich proprietors (whose grounds are elegant to the 
last degree of luxury) from the farms of their humble 
neighbors, and above the road hangs a redoubtable preci- 
pice, around which hangs a pretty legend, the spur 
of the higher mountains; beyond this a precipice 
gives sharply on the Lac de Bourget, and from it 
once leaped a maiden. Her name was Brigitta, as 
common as Bridget in Ireland. She was affianced to a 
young shepherd whom she loved, but an elderly, rich 
widower pursued her with his unwelcome attentions. 

66 



LEGENDS OF AIX AND MIOLAN 

One day as she was feeding her flock at the top of the 
mountain this disagreeable person appeared ; but she ran 
away from him, and, evoking the protection of the Vir- 
gin, she flung herself from this tremendous height. 

An hour later her agonized parents, who had espoused 
the cause of the elderly adorer, sought for her mangled 
body below, and they beheld Brigitta calmly smiling, 
sitting unhurt a thousand feet below, where she ought 
not to have been, alive. When she threw herself into 
space she said that the Virgin came with a fleecy bank 
of cloud and saved her from the arms of the widower 
and from death. She was deposited safely at the foot 
of the mountain, and gave her name and legend to it in 
perpetuity. 

The range of mountains called the Bauges, famous 
for cheeses and milkmaids (who are eagerly sought for 
as servants), being a healthy, hearty race, are near 
enough to Aix for excursions. The mountains are 
retired from the world and full of legends. One is inter- 
esting, as it presents an arithmetical problem. 

Three travelers, named Peter, Paul, and John, passed 
the night in a simple auberge, or inn. The next morn- 
ing, having paid their little "scot," they took leave of 
the landlady, and gave into her care a box containing a 
thousand ducats, with the promise extracted from her, 
under oath, that she should not give it to any person or to 
either of them unless all three were present. Some time 
after Monsieur Peter appeared and claimed the box, say- 
ing that his friends had sent him. The hostess, forget- 
ting the principal condition imposed upon the restitution 
of the casket by all three of the depositors themselves, 
gave it to him alone. He took the casket, went off, and 

67 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

never has been heard of since, although that was eleven 
hundred years ago. Meantime, as might have been 
expected, Paul and John arrived and inquired for the 
box. They blamed the landlady, and had her arrested 
and taken before the Court on an action of restitution of 
damages. The charge ran thus: " While this dame 
has received the casket from three depositors with an 
order to only deliver it to three, and has falsely delivered 
it to one, who has carried it off to the detriment of the 
other two, the defrauded claim damages; and may it 
please the Judge to estimate the damages high. The 
defrauded claim the eyes in her head." So wrote the 
angry Paul and John. 

Now, as the landlady had very pretty eyes — they 
were all that she had, and of great importance to her — 
she naturally demurred. 

The tribunal, however, condemned the landlady. 
She had, alas, no friends, when a black counselor crept 
up and whispered in the ear of the judge : 

"If Peter, away from Paul and John, had no rights, 
what right had Paul and John away from Peter?" 

This turned the tables, and the landlady kept her 
eyes; so they call this "Auberge Les Yeux de Saint 
Clemence." 

There are, however, many other legends. I went to 
call on a friend, Lady Whalley, who lives near Aix in a 
house called Le Tour et le Maison de Diable. One half 
is a formidable tower of the Middle Ages ; the rest is a 
modern English mansion. As we were drinking our five 
o'clock tea on her piazza, looking over the vine-clad 
valley toward the snow mountains, I saw this stern tower 
cutting the sky. I asked her the origin of the legend. 

68 



LEGENDS OF AIX AND MIOLAN 

"Oh," she said, "if the devil had never done any- 
thing worse than to build that old tower! It keeps the 
wind off us in Winter; it is an admirable place for old 
boxes! Will you ascend it?" And I went with her up 
winding stairs through the heavy old stone architecture 
of the day of the Robber Barons. Some old feudal lofd 
had essayed to build this for defense, but the serfs were 
slow and stupid. "I will give my soul to the devil, if 
he will finish my tower," he incautiously remarked. So 
the next morning he looked up, and lo ! the tower was 
finished, but as he attempted to enter it he fell dead on 
the threshold. The passionate landlord was taken at 
his word. 

I think the tower of Chambery at the old chateau 
six miles from Aix is one of the most beautiful bits of 
florid Gothic I have seen. It has an airy flying-buttress 
which is as delicate as a lady's lace handkerchief. It is 
whispered that the devil had a hand in building this 
tower also, no man being considered clever enough. 
What price his satanic majesty claimed for this I do not 
know, but doubtless a great boon, for, as says one old 
chronicler: "Mais ce qui caracterise le diable, c'est 
qu'il est inaccessible a tous les bons sentiments." 

I am afraid he is rather inaccessible. So is the tower. 
I have never been able to climb up to its highest turret. 
Far more accessible is his satanic majesty in some of his 
more recent works. 

We determined to do the historical a little at Aix ; 
not all its memories are so sunny or so joyous as these I 
have described. We determined to go to see a rem- 
nant of the tyranny of the Middle Ages, horrible old 
Miolan. 

69 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

A gloomy old ruin is that of the Savoyard Bastille, 
called Miolan. It was once a feudal chateau, in the 
commune of St. Pierre d'Albigni, the chief place of the 
canton in the neighborhood of Chambery. It is situ- 
ated on a promontory two hundred and fifty metres 
above the valley of Bourget, on a grand route which 
follows the f> road from Chambery to Albertville. It 
looks down on the valley of the Isere, where it meets the 
Aec. It is by nature defended on one side by the 
mountains of Fieterive, which shut it off from the pla- 
teau of Beanges. The approach is by two stony roads, 
one from St. Pierre, the other from Fieterive, and Mont 
Blanc looks over the shoulder of the mountain of Fie- 
terive like a great white nose. The interior of the walls 
of the chateau covers fifty-seven acres. This includes 
bastion and fort, courts and gardens, chateau, chapel, 
and fortress. In the first court is a vast fountain, the 
ruins of a lordly habitation. In the second are the ter- 
rible dungeons where many brave men passed many years 
of their miserable lives. A vast moat or ditch sur- 
rounds this gloomy place. There are different rooms in 
this prison, called variously Paradise and L'Enfers, Pur- 
gatory, etc. In the part of the building which was used 
as a home for the noble family who once lived there, 
afterward for the Governors and Lieutenants, one can 
yet distinguish the vast kitchens and salons and noble 
rooms; on the other side the chapel of the prisoners, the 
subterranean cells, damp and dark, places of torture, also 
cellars for provisions, and at the southwest a high tower 
still exists where, it is said, that unlucky creature, the 
"Man in the Iron Mask," was once buried, as he contin- 
ued always to be buried, alive. 

70 



LEGENDS OF AIX AND MIOLAN 

The religious history of the chapel gives us some 
dates. It was an important bishopric in 1 38 1. When 
Miolan became a State prison, which was just before the 
days of Louis XIV, the cur£ was charged with the spir- 
itual care of the prisoners. The chapel owned some im- 
portant relics; one of them was three thorns of the 
chaplet which our Lord wore at His crucifixion, brought 
by one of the Grand Seigneurs of Miolan on his return 
from the Crusades. These three thorns, lately, were once 
more transported to the Church of the Augustines by 
one of the ladies of Miolan, and then there were several 
great battles for the sacred relics. Sovereigns and Popes 
fought for these thorns. One of the Miolan family be- 
came a Pope in 1058, under the name of Nicholas I; and 
so they go on, for many years, being bishops, priests, and 
monks, Benedictines, Franciscans, and Jesuits, as it 
happened, as well as soldiers, politicians, crusaders — a 
great powerful family of the Middle Ages. Then they ran 
out, as all families will, leaving their chateau behind them. 

We come down to an interesting man named the 
noble "Anthelme de Miolan," who rendered homage to 
the great Count Edward of Savoie in 1324, and gave 
him the chateau with all its appurtenances, its rights, 
roads, farms, treasures, vineyards, laws, the " mixed 
empire of justice" (which meant a right to hang, mal- 
treat, and belabor all the peasantry, send them to wars, 
make them slaves, in fact), also brooks, rivers, and for- 
ests, "a right royal gift," and his feudal lord ennobled 
him and gave him "one piece of game from the noble 
royal hunt." Anthelme also continued to live at Miolan, 
and from him it passed to his nephew, Anthelme de 
Bonvillard. 

71 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

These feudal transactions finally brought this fine 
property into the hands of the Dukes of Savoy — as we 
should say " it became the property of the State" — or 
the Duke of Savoy (some say) cheated the noble Clau- 
dine de Miolan of her rights. Here the chronicle is 
vague, but somehow the Kings of France got possession 
of the chateau. They made it, in 1529, a prison — a 
State prison. The barony was retained in the family, 
but the house, alas! became a scene of torture. What 
an awful history of human woes was to be enacted there 
for three hundred years ! 

The name of Miolan in Savoy is as terrible as that of 
"Bastille" in France. This prison was used as a hiding 
place for all men who were dangerous to the reigning 
favorites. What a terrible State prison it was. In the 
memoirs of the Count of Sardinia, by M. Blondet, Charge 
d' Affaires de France at Turin, during the reign of Victor 
Amedee, we find these words: "Unhappy the man for 
whom the doors of this fortress open! He will never 
escape, he had better die!" They were shut up there — 
and forgotten. Tortured and starved while alive, they 
died maniacs or committed suicide. Allowed only a 
pallet of straw in a dark cell, deprived of air, without 
proper clothing, heavily laden with chains, these miser- 
able men, priests, noblemen, educated, refined gentlemen, 
lived or died, unregarded, unpitied, the innocent victims 
of an odious age. 

One cell was called L'Enfer; it was in the cellar— cold 
and damp, the sun never entered it; its one window 
opened into the ditch whose frightful odors gave the 
prisoner fever and sickness. Here were put innocent 
men when the prison got too full. The shrieks of one 

72 



LEGENDS OF AIX AND MIOLAN 

man in his cell so haunted one of the Governors that he 
no longer placed his subjects there. Fortunately, his 
superstitious fears saved them. 

The prior of Canibus, a most holy man, sent to Miolan 
in 1687, had not only no fire in his room, but he had no 
clothing proper for the celebration of the mass. He 
borrowed a cloak of the Governor, that he might appear 
decently in the chapel. The Count Rubat, hidden in 
the prison at the same time, begged that his wife might 
be allowed to bring him a change of linen, as his was 
covered with vermin. It was refused, this modest 
request for a clean shirt, to a man who was a magnificent 
Seigneur. It is difficult to even dream of the horrors 
of this prison. These men in gloomy solitude, deprived 
of paper, ink, or books, of every comfort, grew mad and 
blasphemous. Is it strange that they sought to escape? 
To murder their inhuman keepers? One of these poor 
wretches, named Charles Roux, carried for three years 
a chain weighing fifty pounds on his feet for having 
attempted to escape. He was, it is true, a dangerous 
man; three times he nearly evaded his cruel keepers, 
three times he was retaken, loaded with iron, staves, 
whipped, and put in the cell called "L'Enfer." A noble 
and merciful Governor, called Claude des Fauyrs, 
found him in this darksome cell and mitigated his 
suffering, but his reason was gone. His tempera- 
ment could not stand such suffering. It left him com- 
pletely mad, and he imagined himself the Son of God. 
He died in 1576, after twenty years of captivity, in hor- 
rible anguish. 

Others lost their health, and when, in 1743, the 
Spaniards came to occupy Savoy, and the doors of 

73 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

Miolan were thrown open, for a short time, the five 
miserable wretches who were found there were not able 
to support the journey to Aosta. The air of liberty 
came too late, and their lungs, ruined by the detestable 
malaria of tyranny, brought up blood instead of breath. 
Hope and happiness broke the lacerated hearts, and they 
died, as the prisoners of our War who escaped from the 
Southern Bastille, without fingers, without toes, with 
fatal disease, the disease of starvation — died when they 
tasted the good soup which it was hoped would revive 
them. 

The suicides were many. In a violent paroxysm 
of despair some, preferring death to long agony, threw 
themselves from the ramparts. One poor wretch who 
thus attempted to end his miserable career was caught by 
his chains in a tree, was retaken, and tortured until he 
died, a year after. 

Some of the Governors of this prison were merciful, 
some were inhuman brutes, who loved to maim, to starve, 
and to kill. A certain Governor, Pierre le Blanc, who 
held the office from 171 3 to 1734, was one of these mon- 
sters who delighted in cruelty. He never lost sight of 
his victims, paid them visits at extraordinary hours, even 
in the night. He looked on at their miserable meals, de- 
priving them of knife and fork, plate and spoon : they 
were obliged to tear their meat like dogs. He invented 
new tortures for them, sent the disobedient and those 
whom he hated to the "Enfer," loaded the young men 
with chains; he had them whipped, he insulted them. 
He writes all this himself in his reports, and rejoiced in 
the name of the " Pitiless." 

And we may now ask, what had these men done to 

74 




wnceii ^Maryt/wile e 



av-v?i. 



LEGENDS OF AIX AND MIOLAN 

deserve these terrible sufferings? Were they murderers? 
No, they were principally disobedient priests, men per- 
haps like Martin Luther, who had too much courage ; or 
they were noblemen who differed from their sovereign 
on some petty interpretation of the law; or they were 
dangerous political offenders who perhaps doubted the 
divine right of Kings. All were of gentle blood ; it was 
a distinction to be sent to Miolan ; no plebeian was put 
in this pandemonium ; that is to say, at first. No doubt 
after these tortures, this horrible solitude, their fierce 
and gloomy wrongs, many a man became dangerous. 
No doubt the poor creature, Chiafrelli, an unfrocked 
priest, who was chained, arms and legs, and whipped, 
who lay in his irons until he was covered with vermin, 
who was finally fastened with three fetters so that he 
could not knock his head against the wall and kill him- 
self, blasphemed and cried, and called the Governor a 
"dog." It was an insult to the poor animal, a compli- 
ment to the Governor, but he got only more punish- 
ment and so died. 

Sometimes a more merciful man came; whose kind 
heart made him too lax for the place. Such a one was 
the Governor de Launay, who allowed his prisoners pen 
and ink, and color boxes, and food and warmth. Inter- 
preting too largely the instructions of the Commander 
General of Savoy, he gave to the Marquis de Sade his 
liberty or allowed him to escape. Of course, such a 
Governor was soon removed. 

One of the curious anecdotes remains of the ingenuity 
of a prisoner who made ink of the juice of tobacco in his 
pipe, caught a bird and pulled a quill from his wing, and 
found a morsel of paper in the stuffing of a chair. With 

75 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

these materials he wrote a note and threw it to the hat 
of a visitor. For which crime he was sent to L'Enfer, 
where he died. 

Some young men were sent here because they were 
disobedient to their parents. If they paid a certain sum 
they were afterward comparatively well cared for, but 
many of these men were forgotten when a change of 
government came, and they languished out a long life of 
miserable captivity behind these gloomy walls. When a 
prisoner of state died it was promised to his friends that 
he should have the right of sepulture, but this was often 
denied him. Their bodies were thrown to the dogs, and 
a ditch is still shown where this last act of inhumanity 
was practiced. 

The Pere Monod, who had been a Jesuit and who 
became a Protestant, a faithful, humble servitor of the 
Duchess of Savoy, spent a long time in this prison. 
Finally dying here, he left to "Madame Royale" his 
memoirs and the pictures he had painted in his captivity. 
Many of these details are drawn from his papers, now 
preserved at Chambery. 

Le Pere Ballard was also confined here for a long 
time because he had some state secrets which he would 
not divulge. After great suffering he died in convulsions 
at the age of seventy-seven. 

The cord, the rack, the "question," the torture, were 
applied to all these poor men. 

But enough of these horrors. From 1555 to 1789 
these now ruined walls continued to be the scene of hor- 
rible cruelty and wrong. 

The history of Miolan as a State prison stops in the 
year 1792. The chateau, evacuated after the occupa- 

76 



LEGENDS OF AIX AND MIOLAN 

tion of Savoy by the French army under Montesquion, 
was abandoned. For a time Napoleon proposed to keep 
it up as a prison, but it was forgotten. It was not sold 
during the revolutionary period, and the Sardinian Gov- 
ernment took possession of it in 1815. 

To-day Miolan is a picturesque ruin, serving the pur- 
pose to the gay visitors of Aix-les-Bains of an afternoon 
excursion. It is a contrast worthy of note that, after 
one hundred years, one goes from a spot where human 
infirmities are mercifully relieved to look with wonder 
on the spot where they were enormously intensified. 

Our visit here came very near having a gloomy and 
tragic end, as one of our party wandered off and got 
lost. We feared that she had fallen down an oubliette^ 
whence she could never be discovered ; but after making 
us suffer an hour, she walked back by another route 
smiling, and we all drove back to cheerful Aix to a gay 
supper. 



77 



Palaces Kings have Built in Bavaria 

I have been in Munich three or four times — the last 
two against my will, for one sight is enough. To be 
sure, I came there once from Florence, that flower of 
all cities and city of all flowers (and nothing can take 
the taste of Florence out of one's mouth); and again I 
came to it from Nuremberg, that gem of the Middle 
Ages; and again I reached it from Innsbruck, also very 
unbecoming to it. A lovely daughter of the consecrated 
Past is Innsbruck, with natural scenery the most noble. 
What a lift of snow mountains ! 

I somehow never forgave Munich for its long, flat 
plain, its artificial air, its assumption of being a little 
Rome, its cold, forlorn climate, until I went there to 
and from Ober-Ammergau. That made me at peace with 
all the world — even with Munich ! 

And yet, when you come to think of it, Munich is the 
greatest wonder of them all. More ambitious than the 
great Prince of Conde, who only built Chantilly; more 
cheerful than Philip II, who built a monastery, palace, 
and tomb, and called it the Escurial ; more hopeful than 
any of them was Ludwig I of Bavaria, who aspired to 
build a city, and from 1825 to 1848 worked at his mod- 
ern Rome. He had enthusiasm and money, and with 
these two arms one can sling the sledge-hammer and build 
almost anything. This city grew up amid the marshes 

78 



PALACES IN BAVARIA 

of the River Isar, in the wild forests of Bavaria, as if by 
magic. 

This little forest-girt mountainous Bavaria has been 
the treasure-house of the traveler since the Emperors 
Trajan and Hadrian built strongholds from the Lake of 
Constance to Mayence, and from Mayence to Kelheim, 
on the Danube. But the irrepressible barbarians broke 
through, and the four great Teutonic tribes broke 
through and founded some of the most quaint and inter- 
esting cities of mediaeval Germany — towns which make 
Munich look new and fictitious. From their geograph- 
ical position the Bavarians have thus a strong mixture of 
Celtic, Italian, and Saxon blood. They seem a different 
nationality from the Germans. 

A sturdy race are these settlers of the fruitful plains 
which fill the mountain valleys of Bavaria. They are 
satisfied with their lot and ready to defend their beauti- 
ful country. They are full of music, of dramatic per- 
ception. They have the contrasts of their scenery, 
where grim, dark forest and mountain give way and 
reveal fairy lakes and valleys full of cherry blossoms — 
an exquisite contrast. 

In the days of Charlemagne the Bavarian people 
became merged in the great empire which Pepin had 
founded ; for this small father of a big and famous son 
fell in love with and married a daughter of a Duke of 
Bavaria, who became the mother of the " Carlo Magno" 
of the opera, the Charlemagne of history and the world, 
who could neither read nor write, but who has made his 
mark on the world — this great man and his paladins. 

We will skip eleven hundred years to save bother and 
come down to Ludwig I, successor to Maximilian I. 

79 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

This Prince found Munich an unimportant, dull place — a 
plain, provincial city. He left it full of palaces and a 
museum of the world's choicest art treasures, and the 
head of a school of music. He restored at enormous 
outlay, the cathedrals of Bamberg and Regensburg, and 
erected a Pantheon unequaled in the world. 

Although his artistic and classical tastes, as well as 
his genuine patriotism, made him popular, he was more 
of a dilettante" than a King, so that he had no very 
strong hold on his people. He had a fatal facility for 
falling in love. Fanny Elssler and Lola Montez finally 
ruined him and drove him from his throne. The Bava- 
rians drove the spoiled favorite out of town with whips, 
and the gentle-hearted King was impotent to save her. 
He gave his indignant subjects such a Constitution as 
they wished, and then retired to an intellectual seclu- 
sion, giving his crown to his son, Maximilian II, who 
died in 1864, leaving the crown to Ludwig II, a boy of 
seventeen. 

The Glyptothek and Pinacothek remain to praise the 
taste and the prescience of Ludwig I. The visitor 
fresh from Rome and Florence again dreams of the 
Vatican and the Ufiizi Gallery. This trend of the arts 
toward the North found out and left improved those 
great workers in bronze for which Bavaria has been fam- 
ous. Bavaria was the natural channel north, the high- 
road by which the arts traveled. 

Ludwig I attempted to do the work of centuries in 
fifty years. His work lacks charm. Perhaps Count 
Rumford made it rather Yankee in character. His sin- 
gular visit to Ludwig, his admirable management of the 
poor, his invention of a stove which still bears his name, 

80 



PALACES IN BAVARIA 

his rise from plain Benjamin Thompson, of Concord, N, : 
H., to Count Rumford, the friend of the King, should 
have impressed me more than it did. I do not go to 
Europe for useful ideas. I go for antiquity and art, the 
beauties of nature ; and where can one find them better 
than in Bavaria? 

Poor, crazy King Ludwig II, "lord of himself, that 
heritage of woe," interested me far more than any 
reminiscences of Count Rumford, and when I passed the 
Lake of Starnberg, where he drowned himself, I felt the 
deepest sorrow that a creature so gifted could not have 
kept his wits. Handsome, gifted, beloved by his peo- 
ple, he was seized with melancholia, and gave himself up 
to solitary concerts with Wagner, and he has earned my 
eternal gratitude that he finally wore out Wagner, who 
got bored with himself — Wagner, who has so often bored 
me! 

Then he took to building and to ornamenting the 
many beautiful palaces which one can now see and 
admire, although the hand which built them lies still in 
death. Ludwig I built in his own royal "Konigsland" 
an imitation of the Pitti Palace at Florence. The Hall of 
the Marshals is a repetition of the Loggia di Lanzi. A 
magnificent gateway and the Hall of Fame are models 
of pure Greek taste. These we owe to Ludwig I. 

There is a fresco by Schnorr illustrating the " Nibe- 
lungenlied," that great national epic. It is superb, as 
are the frescoes by Kaulbach. I am afraid that I am 
not making out Munich as disagreeable as it is! Here 
you see how, in the times of the great Italian republics, 
the commerce, the art, and the civilization of the south 
made its way to the world north of the Alps. Bavaria 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

has ever been a stopping-place for artists, architects, and 
designers. What were earlier shooting-lodges and hunt- 
ing-boxes for the warlike Dukes became, after two cen- 
turies, the palaces of art-loving Kings. 

After seeing the great drama at Ober-Ammergau, 
and returning to Munich, a party of us took a driving 
tour from Munich to Innsbruck, through Partenkeichen 
and Mittenwald, to enjoy the stupendous and wonderful 
scenery of the Bavarian highlands, and on our way to 
stop and look at the folly of many an art-loving King. 
Such a palace is Hohenschwangau, restored and rebuilt by 
Maximilian, and added to by Ludwig. Hohenschwangau, 
the "home of the swan," was a historic pile in 1540, 
and lies at the foot of a great sombre mountain, with a 
placid lake in front. Here, in great seclusion, that 
stately bird, the swan, increases and multiplies. The 
waters of the lake are white with beautiful forms, which 
" float double, swan and shadow." This romantic castle 
is the home of the mythical and heroic story of Lohen- 
grin, and all its walls are painted with that story. The 
view from the oriel window of the King's room over the 
pure, glistening Alpensee and the dark, pine-clad moun- 
tains is so peaceful that one can well believe that 
he sat there night after night saying " Here I can find 
peace." 

This and Linderhof, and Neuchwanstein, near Ober- 
Ammergau, were the favorite homes of Ludwig II. The 
royal gardens, the three handsome fountains, the walks 
and drives up the mountain, are all kingly in their 
arrangement. A palace in a solitary amphitheatre of 
richly, forest-clad mountains, and between two beautiful 
lakes is not to be found every day. The sleeping-room 

82 



PALACES IN BAVARIA 

of the poor King, simply furnished, possessed a sad 
interest. It looks out on the snowy Alps. 

I could write forever of the pleasures of this drive, 
which took us through the cherry trees from which the 
Kirschwasser derives its delicate bouquet. We went 
through these flower-laden valleys and over the pictur- 
esque points of Bavarian forests with scarcely a draw- 
back to our pleasure. In the early hours we would start 
from some comfortable inn, after a delicious breakfast, 
with our easy berlin and with fast horses, seeing on the 
way the handsome peasant lovers springing with rapid, 
light steps up the almost precipitous heights, caring for 
their herds — the man in an embroidered shirt, hussar 
jacket, and green felt steeple hat covering his thick black 
curls; the girl in her blue and red petticoat, embroid- 
ered jacket, and white chemisette. These Bavarian men 
are mostly foresters, of great fame as to the care of 
trees: the women are excellent dairy women. 

From the haunts of the Alpine rose we would drive to 
some magnificent castle, whose custodian was willing to 
show it to us for a fee, ready to point out a fresco and to 
tell us the story of Siegfried and the dragon, or "Sieg- 
fried and the worm," as they called it, and by the wayside 
we would see the crucifix, which has replaced to these 
Old Catholics the more cheerful Madonna and child of 
Italian lands. These so-called "Old Catholics" seem to 
look at man's sin rather than at God's forgiveness. The 
legends of Judas, the blighted tree, the three sorrowing 
Marys, the vision of Jesus as He hangs on the tree — 
these are their favorites. We love Him as He lies in the 
cradle, with His sweet mother hanging over Him, or, 
better still, as she stands with Him in her. tender arms. 

83 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

For a man of such exalted temperament as was the 
crazy King, the Passion Play at Ober-Ammergau 
appealed with intense force. To them he gave a mag- 
nificent group in marble of the crucifixion, with the three 
Marys kneeling, and the noble figure of the Man of Sor- 
rows copied from their great actor, Joseph Maier. For 
their costumes he opened the treasure house of Munich, 
giving Caiaphas the high priest a breastplate of real 
jewels, such as are mentioned in the Bible. 

The high religious enthusiasm with which these peas- 
ants garner in their hearts their sacred vow reached the 
heart of the unfortunate King. His fairy chateau of 
Neuchwanstein, remote and lonely, stands on a high 
bluff, while three precipices fall from its three sides, its 
Gothic towers throw themselves bravely up in the air, 
while behind it rise the savage summits of the Tyrolese 
Alps. It is approached on one side through a long, 
solitary forest. Across a gulf is thrown the aerial 
bridge, the Marienbriicke, while the Lakes Schwansee 
and Alpensee add their mirrors to the landscape. From 
.an intense solitude this bit of Gothic stands out in all its 
elaborate magnificence, gargoyles, carvings, towers, and 
machicolated roof, while a Venetian loggia ornaments 
the facade, filled with stained glass. Within, what fres- 
coes! what furnishing! This fine palace was left unfin- 
ished, and the Bavarian people have yet to pay for it. 
Here are fine pictures by Piloty, Hauschid, and Spiers, 
the subjects from Wagner's operas. 

From the dining-room of the King we got the most 
beautiful view of the ravines and mountains. The hang- 
ings are of rose color, embroidered in gold. The walls 
are dedicated to the Meistersingers. The King's bed- 

8 4 



PALACES IN BAVARIA 

room was consecrated to the delicious memory of Tristan 
and Iseult. This room is of blue and gold. The royal 
bed was of carved wood, richly incrusted in gold. The 
oratory opens out of this room, and the prie-dieu showed 
signs of frequent kneeling. It was under a picture of 
the Virgin. 

Other rooms had hangings of purple velvet, embroid- 
ered with peacocks. The grand salon was consecrated 
to Lohengrin, and here was a bust of Louis XIV of 
France, a man whom Ludwig II admired and sought to 
emulate. We seem to hear in this room the Wedding 
March and Elsa's song, that unconscious apology of 
Wagner for his many long disquisitions into the algebra 
of music. To Tannhauser the King dedicated his work- 
ing-room, his council chamber. 

; On the other side of the chateau is the throne-room, a 
marvel of Byzantine splendor. It is surrounded by a 
double gallery of arches, and enriched with the rarest 
Oriental mosaics, and supported by pillars of porphyry 
and lapis lazuli. The floor is inlaid with choice marbles. 
A vast elevation in white marble was to have held a 
throne, but that remains unfinished. But in this Cha- 
teau en Espagne, this dream house, he finished one room, 
the Salle des Chanteurs. His opera house, his theatre, 
was always built. And at Neuchwanstein this is a fairy 
vision, delicate yet superb, with a vast circular tribune 
for great people, a pit for humbler guests, full of crystal 
chandeliers and most gorgeous upholstery, capitonee 
with red and gold and purple, vastly more splendid than 
any theatre which we have in New York. This com- 
plete empty theatre is dedicated to Parsival. 

This house was his bonbonniere; it has not the cachet 

85 



\ 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

d' antiquity which Hohenstauffen has; but it is exquis- 
ite. It is now being pillaged, and it will soon be a 
royal ruin. 

It was at Linderhof, however, that all the contrarie- 
ties of his queer insanity next showed themselves. One 
must cross the Austrian frontier to reach Linderhof, 
over one of the grandest of Tyrolese passes. The route 
becomes almost lost in the vast depth of the forest. 
One hears the sound of the zither and of the cattle 
bells, and nothing else. 

As the world will turn its face toward the " Passion 
Play" at Ober-Ammergau in 1900, the traveler should 
arrange not only to see Munich well, but also these won- 
derful houses, and should approach by Zurich, which 
gives a fine view of the Bavarian Tyrol. 

Nor should any traveler neglect to drive, if possible, 
to Innsbruck to gain that vision of the country which, in 
June, lighted up by the cherry blossoms, has a beauty 
and a fragrance which, although unlike the charm of the 
other Alpine passes, has a delight quite peculiar to itself. 



86 



Ober-Ammergau 



It presented a curious antithesis of human character 
and human curiosity to see the crowds rush, in the Sum- 
mer of 1889, to Paris, to look at the World's Fair, at 
the rate of 350,000 a day, and, in the Summer of 1890, 
to see them all rush back to the remote corner of the 
Bavarian Tyrol, to watch a few peasants play in that 
immortal drama which is, to Christians, the most impor- 
tant story in the world ; but in this age of unbelief who 
could think that even skeptical Germans, French, and 
English critics, French actors, Roman Catholic clergy, 
English bishops, Mohammedans, priests of the Greek 
Church, and, of course, the globe-trotting Americans — 
all would be on the move for Ober-Ammergau ? Yet so 
it was. 

Now, what had stimulated this vast curiosity? A 
Miracle Play can be seen in many an old German town, 
and has always been occasionally on the programme of 
European amusements ; many more mediaeval and curious 
than this one. 

Ober-Ammergau has, however, been fortunate in 
two things: First, in the fact that sixty years ago a 
man of genius, the pastor Daisenberger, himself a dra- 
matist of some distinction, a learned Monk, from the 
neighboring monastery of Ettal, one who had translated 
the Antigone of Sophocles, came to live at Ober-Am- 

87 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

mergau. He seized the opportunity, finding how deep 
a hold this play had on the religious sensibilities of the 
peasants, he re-wrote it yearly, obliterated what was vulgar 
and profane, and introduced music and trained the peas- 
ants in the arts of elocution. For many years, unknown 
and unsung, this poor man labored for the love of God 
and the intellectual delights of this highly creditable 
work, until about 1840 William and Mary Howitt hap- 
pened to visit Ober-Ammergau and wrote such delight- 
ful sketches of this wonderful thing that the world began 
to look behind the Kofel, their mountain screen, and 
every tenth year since that time, Ober-Ammergau has 
become an objective point, to the lover of the drama and 
to those who respect the high religious enthusiasm which 
these Suabian peasants garner in their hearts. 

No one who has not seen it, can begin to understand 
how magnificently the play is presented as to costumes, 
scenery, and artistic effect. Remember, they have been 
always near Munich, that home of art; also they have 
been for forty years patronized by those two art-lovers, 
the King Ludwig of Bavaria, who made Munich, and 
later on by the Wagner-loving King Ludwig, so unhap- 
pily crazed, and a suicide, in the Lake of Starnberg. 

Ober-Ammergau has also been very fortunate in its 
eulogists. Helen Hunt wrote one of her charming 
papers after seeing it in 1870. The first year that Josef 
Maier played his divine part Dean Stanley touched it 
with his glowing pencil. I cannot enumerate all who 
have described it. 

Let me give you a plain, unvarnished tale of how I 
reached there; what I saw, felt, and suffered; and I wish 
that I could tell you all I enjoyed. 

88 



OBER-AMMERGAU 

There was nothing talked of in Paris, during May so 
much as " How shall we get to Ober- Ammergau ? ' ' Two 
rival ticket agents commanded every route and every 
bedroom which could be engaged. Strange stories of 
hardships, sleeping in barns, etc., were circulated — all of 
which were absurd. Ober- Ammergau is a large, com- 
fortable German village, and they continued to "put 
up" five thousand people a day very decently. In a 
rainy day it would be very gloomy, but in the bright 
sunlight in which I saw it seemed transcendently beau- 
tiful. The physical discomforts of which we heard 
so much belonged to that earlier Ober-Ammergau, when 
they were not prepared for visitors. The fatigue of sit- 
ting, for ten hours, to see the play, is a serious matter; 
but of that more anon. I saw -it on the 22d of June, 
1890, and I consider it one of the greatest privileges of 
my life. 

I found myself in Munich on June 1 8th, having bought 
my tickets of Cook a month before. I went by way of 
Geneva and Zurich, by far the best way if one happens 
to be in Paris, for on the road between Zurich and 
Munich the peculiar character of the scenery bursts upon 
one, and the pictures and images by the wayside of 
Christ on the Cross, which take the place of the usual 
Shrine to the Virgin and Child, prepare the mind for the 
eminently devout and religious ceremony which is to 
follow. Here were the early Christians who did not 
celebrate Christmas, but began their teaching with Christ 
crucified. 

At Munich I went with some trepidation to the office 
of Cook to see if my tickets really entitled me to a car- 
riage from Oberau and a room at Ober-Ammergau. 

89 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

I found that my German maid and I were as carefully 
recorded as if we were the only people arriving — a great 
feat of system, when one remembers that twenty thou- 
sand people a week have been to see this play all Sum- 
mer. The short railroad from Munich to Oberau only 
took some three hours. At the end we found our car- 
riage amidst many others. Irate Englishmen were quar- 
reling, and threatening to "report" everybody; but 
Cook's agent remained unmoved. We drove off over a 
splendid mountain pass, through forests of fir, under 
precipices, by waterfalls, and glorious distant views, 
through fields of Alpine roses and blue gentian, to the 
town of Ober-Ammergau, which is on a plateau. We 
passed the Monastery of Ettal where lived the learned 
Daisenberger, the man to whom the Ober-Ammergauites 
owe so much, and several small villages ; finally, turning 
around the edge of a strange mountain called the Kofel, 
we entered a large and comfortable Alpine town, with 
many houses and an air of prosperity. What a scene 
was that! As we entered, forty carriages in line were 
we, and the streets were swarming with people, pedes- 
trians, peasants in a hundred costumes, English men and 
women (unmistakable everywhere), many Roman Cath- 
olic clergymen; Bishops, Priests, and Deacons of our 
church; the Sultan of Lahore, a black Mussulman with 
his dusky followers all covered with jewels, wearing tur- 
bans and the Eastern robes; many Americans, easily dis- 
tinguished by their neat and natty clothes; Germans, 
French, Italians; and even a few dark Arabs from Tan- 
giers, eager, intent, swift, — by hundreds and hundreds 
they pressed in. It was like the movement of armies. 
The only thing to do was to sit still and await my time. 

90 



OBER-AMMERGAU 

By and by my carriage arrived at the door of Biirgo- 
meister Lang. I handed my card and Cook's tickets. I 
asked Caroline, my German maid, if she would go in and 
interpret for me; but before she even could descend, a 
very respectable old gentleman came out, and, with an 
air of authority, said"Frau Sherwood and maid, drive to 
Spigel's." A little girl, very pretty and with long hair, 
jumped on the box, and telling me that she was "Lena 
and that she owned me," we drove on. 

Nothing but the movement of an army could possibly 
have resembled our progress to the house of Spigel, but 
once arrived there we found good rooms, a fair, clean 
table, as good as we should usually find in a country inn 
in Germany. After some necessary ablutions and a sup- 
per of roasted goose, venison, fresh eggs, and coffee, I 
seated myself outside my bedroom window on an over- 
hanging balcony and watched the motley groups : young 
peasant men with the Alpine hat full of Alpine roses, the 
women in high headdresses with magnificent silver orna- 
ments and brocaded jackets mingled in the crowd. Pres- 
ently around the corner came a strain of martial music ; 
then a hurly-burly of children : beautiful boys with long 
hair, and bright feathers in their ragged hats ; active little 
girls with floating long ringlets, all rugged and happy; 
the fire company, dressed in high helmets, marched by, 
executing with ceremony and music the introduction 
to the morrow. It was so like the scene in the opera 
of Faust when the soldiers return, that I was sure 
the author of that beautiful music had seen just such a 
demonstration. Then the sun went down, bathing the 
top of the giant mountains in a red light; a cannon 
was fired; and as the little new moon rose over the 

91 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

Kofel I left my exalted position and came in to have 
an audience with the housefather. Caroline introduced 
him with much ceremony, and I found him very polite. 
He informed me that he had two tickets for me at ten 
marks apiece : I could sit out in the open, if I preferred, 
for five marks apiece, but I told him the "rheumatism 
would cost me more than twenty marks," so I paid the 
highest price. This rather feeble witticism pleased him 
very much, and he proceeded to tell me "that I was 
wise." 

I asked him what part he played. He said, with 
true dramatic instinct, "Oh, I am one of the money- 
changers driven from the temple. I am also one of those 
who reviles our blessed Lord ; but I dress the hair of the 
Christus [he was the village barber], and Lena," said 
he, "is one of the angels and a bridesmaid; she appears 
in all the tableaux on account of her beautiful hair." 

He then advised me to go to bed, for I must be up at 
five in the morning; a cannon was fired at that hour. 
Such a noise of five thousand people moving in all 
directions can scarcely be described. All the people 
who were to play were going to the church, first to take 
the communion, only the Housemother and one maid 
remained to give us some breakfast. My maid took a 
little luncheon and a bottle of wine with her, and we 
were in our seats at eight o'clock. The housefather 
conducting me with much ceremony. Never did I find 
myself in such a pack, such a jam, yet the seats were 
most comfortable, high, broad, large armchairs. 

Off in the open, as far from our covered shed as 
across Fifth Avenue, stood the theatre, a pretty build- 
ing with a centre stage drop-curtain, and all the belong- 

92 



OBER-AMMERGAU 

ings of a theatre, with two immense wings stretching 
either side, giving suggestions of a street of a city, and 
a palace for Pilate later on. This is on the Greek 
model; and as the chorus singers emerge, eighteen in 
number, dressed in beautiful Greek costumes, and sing 
delightfully, you seem to see the chorus of an opera; 
also, as it is all in the open air, you get an idea of the 
Greek drama. Then they retire and fall back in a sort 
of half- moon circle, and the curtain rises upon a tableau. 

This closed part of the theatre is the only part which 
has a roof over it. In other parts the rain falls or the sun 
shines on these hard-working actors as it does on all the 
spectators who have only paid five marks, and who sit in 
the open air. The birds fly about and cast their fitful 
shadows on the actors, as they once might have done in 
Judea. The Kofel rises in spendid majesty behind the 
theatre. It is an indescribable mixture of noble nature and 
the highest art. 

I had taken a powerful opera glass with me, and 
I needed it as the curtain rose on a tableau in which 
I recognized my friend Lena. These pictures are 
directly typical, and intended to be prophetic in the 
scenes in the life of Christ which follow. They are 
rendered with marvelous effect. I could not see a 
muscle move, even in the smallest child's face. There 
were two tableaux presented, one after the other, in 
which the actors were motionless. 

Then the curtain rose on the living drama. Of a 
sudden the whole scene was filled with the streets of 
Jerusalem, and down one of them came a man riding on 
an ass, led by a young adoring disciple. The populace 
shouted and threw palm branches. It was the entrance' 

93 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

of our Lord into Jerusalem. One glance was enough; 
from that moment the play became entrancing. It was 
something above and beyond humanity; it is opera, 
drama, tableau, and something else, something higher. 

Josef Maier, the Christus, is one of those exceptional 
men who seem to have been made for the part. He is 
very tall, graceful, slender, and the side face beautiful, 
the hair long and silken, the hands fine, white and 
meant for a benediction. He is dignified, so superb that 
one takes him at once into that most sacred temple 
where one keeps the vision of the Savior. His voice 
is refined, low and thrilling; it is impossible that any 
man could play this part so intensely trying unless 
he were influenced by real religious enthusiasm. One's 
natural credulity as to the possibility of a humble 
and unlettered peasant being able to play this most 
sublime role disappears from this moment. The whole 
lesson of Christ's life, the whole lesson of Christ's 
death, are shown, taught, impressed with a vividness 
which one must be callous not to feel, and the mind 
that can remain antagonistic to the end, and declare this 
an impious or irreverent personation, is not to be envied. 
Indeed, looking at this as a merely dramatic spectacle, a 
matter of acting, of pictorial effects, it is to my mind 
more powerful than any sermon, more impressive and 
more useful than most ceremonials in church — and I 
believe that I have seen the grandest ceremonials of all, 
in every country where cathedrals and cathedral services 
are at their best, from London to Rome. 

The stage open to the sky, a background so ingen- 
iously arranged as to give a good representation of sev- 
eral streets of a city, was crowded by a roving mass of 

94 



OBER-AMMERGAU 

five hundred people, waving palm branches and singing 
hosannas, the central figure being Jesus. The versimili- 
tude to an old picture was astonishing; the splendor of 
the colors was dazzling — it was like our Autumn woods 
in North America. 

The whole five hundred were acting as if each one 
were the central and prominent part. It was so natural 
that it was not acting, and this is the grand distinction 
of the play. The interest is so intense, and the move- 
ment so rapid, that you scarcely notice that the Christ 
has descended from his beast; John has led him away. 
The crowd has melted, and the money-changers are 
picking up their coins in the temple, when our Lord 
charges upon them and drives them out. I noticed my 
little landlord ; he was strangely transformed by his won- 
derful dress, right out of Rembrandt, but he acted his 
humble part as if he had been Salvini. There is a native 
and long trained dramatic instinct in these people. 
While the Saviour is on the scene every eye is fixed on 
Him. The strain would be too great if infinite tact 
were not shown in this long drama, which is interrupted 
at every act by the chorus and by the two tableaux, 
which help to carry on the Old and New Testament 
story. 

The recess opens, the curtain rises on the council of 
the Sanhedrin, the assembly of the High Priests of the 
Synagogue, which is a magnificent picture. They remain 
quiet a few minutes that one may see it. Then they 
begin to talk, to argue, and reminded me very much of 
other grand assemblies of law-givers whom I had seen in 
Congress and elsewhere; they became tedious, they 
were long-winded, and as the Scotchmen say "contra- 

95 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

deectin." It was, however, a grand display of acting 
on the part of Johann Lang, who enacted the part of the 
despotic and irritable High Priest Caiaphas in a mas- 
terly manner. 

Then we see Christ's departure for Bethany, his fare- 
well to his mother, his relations with his sorrowing dis- 
ciples ; which all lead up to the Last Supper, the climax 
of the morning's performance. This scene introduces 
Judas and his avarice. He starts as he sees Mary Mag- 
dalene breaking the pot of precious ointment. It is curi- 
ous that the vice of avarice has been permitted to play 
so great a part in the tragedy of Humanity. Murder 
comes first in the history of Cain. False-hearted jeal- 
ousy comes next in the story of Joseph. Perhaps we 
should put curiosity first, as betraying the promptings 
of human passion ; but even these are all nobler than 
that miserable greed which was the sin of Judas. Per- 
haps it was to be the curse of the Jews for all time, as 
their easily besetting sin, to thus put on record the fear- 
ful effect which this one pot of ointment has had on 
their race. 

Judas was played by a man named Zwing, a most 
powerful and wonderful actor. His very dress of two 
shades of yellow velvet was magnificent but repulsive; 
his fiery hair stood in tangles over a low, mean brow. 
He seems to love his Master, he looks at Him a great 
deal, he is devout until his love of money comes in; 
but from the moment he sees money wasted to the end of 
his tragic career, when he takes his own life, his remorse 
and despair are superb. Face, attitude, voice, action, 
are grandly true to life. Nothing can surpass the sub- 
tlety of this conception. He makes you at once, like, 

96 



OBER-AMMERGAU 

hate, and pity him. It is not a malignant, willful 
treachery, but pure, unrestrained avarice, which seizes 
his soul with a fiendish hand. He holds himself, poor 
creature, in detestation, and the gesture and look with 
which he flings down the bag of money, in the presence 
of the Sanhedrin, is a triumph of the dramatic art, never 
to be forgotten. 

Only the profoundest religious fervor could carry 
Josef Maier through the scene of the Last Supper. The 
curtain rises on the well-known Leonardo da Vinci pic- 
ture which we know in our Prayer Book. There sits 
the Man of Sorrows with His disciples about him, next 
Him the beloved John, whom he constantly appeals to, 
embraces, and seems to lean on. John is played by a 
beautiful youth who is destined to be the next actor in 
the divine part. 

In this most holy and affectionate ceremony, where 
he washes His disciples' feet and gives them the bread 
and wine, Josef Maier rises to his highest excellence. 
It seems almost wicked to call it acting, it is so near the 
divine ideal; he was so graceful, so winning, so saintly, 
so tender, that everyone wept. The Sultan of Lahore 
who sat in front of me, and his dusky Mohammedan 
followers, wept aloud ; many women fell on their knees 
and crossed themselves; even he who has played this 
part many hundred times was visibly affected, his voice 
and gestures betraying his emotion. I shall never hear 
the words, il Remember that Christ died for thee, "with- 
out recalling this scene with a depth of feeling rarely 
experienced before. 

The scene "Over the brook Kedron, unto a place 
called Gethsemane," that eventful garden, was very 

97 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

beautiful, solemn, and heart-rending. Oh, the disap- 
pointment in his face when he saw that even His be- 
loved John was sleeping and His human heart-throb as 
He proved the insufficiency of human friendship! All 
was portrayed in a manner so subdued, so powerful, so 
actual, and so almost divine, that it brought the audi- 
ence into a state of most intense sympathy. " Could you 
not watch with me one little hour?" says the lonely 
man. 

That dear human weakness which our blessed Lord 
showed, as He knelt three times and prayed that this 
cup might pass from Him, has been the support of many 
of us in hours of superhuman anguish, and this vision of 
that kneeling figure in the Garden has brought Him 
nearer to us than any act of His divine life. 

Then followed the wild tumultuous scene, the discov- 
ery of treachery always so horrible, the confusion of the 
Judas kiss, the soldiers seizing and binding the Saviour, 
and the terrible grief of the impulsive Peter, the heart- 
break of the youthful John, — all finish the human part 
of the Saviour's life on earth. 

From that moment an intense solitary grandeur seems 
to envelop Him. He is no more with John, no more 
with Peter, no more with the loving Luke or the hospi- 
table Mark — they have all left Him. Henceforth He, 
the God-man; He, their friend and brother; He, the 
Redeemer of our race — is alone with his enemies, to be 
scourged, tortured, insulted, and crucified. 

Happily for our poor human strength we were here 
permitted an hour's intermission. Four hours had we sat, 
unconscious of time. We went back to our hotels to 

98 



OBER-AMMERGAU 

get a dinner ; to rest ; to prepare for an afternoon so full 
of emotion that as I look back upon it I wonder how I 
could have endured it. Actors as well as spectators 
went home, and the villagers resumed their homely 
functions. My host waited on his own table and Lena 
washed the dishes. Herod and Pontius Pilate and 
Caiaphas and Judas and the angels took to cooking, 
sewing, and so on. Here the domestic, funny side of 
Ober-Ammergau comes in. 

The firing of a cannon on the Kofel, however, an- 
nounced to the six thousand spectators and the five 
hundred actors that it was time to go back to the play. 
The singers commenced again. The tableaux preced- 
ing "Christ before Caiaphas' ' were, appropriately, 
"Naboth stoned to death on false accusations" and "Job 
in affliction derided by his wife and friends." Both were 
very impressive. 

The scene of Jesus before his judges is one of the 
most stirring of the dramatic incidents. The stage is 
crowded; everyone is excited; old Caiaphas throws off 
his splendid breastplate, his robes of office, so he can 
harangue with greater ease. He is an old busybody; 
he is nervous ; he talks and laughs with his next neigh- 
bor ; he is in a great hurry, and wants to get it all over 
with. Jesus stands unmoved, His eyes on the ground. 
He is there, but not of it. The soldiers abuse Him, hustle 
Him about, remove Him, but He does not change coun- 
tenance ; He is far away. 

In the scene where Peter denies Him, he starts, and 
then, as Peter catches his frowning gaze and weeps, the 
Saviour stretches His hand toward the poor, weak, old 
man, in blessed forgiveness. Here Josef Maier again 

99 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

reaches the highest point in the dramatic art ; it is the 
grandest achievement ; he is the part he personates. 

It seems almost cruel to attempt to describe the cap- 
tive, bound and helpless, naked, bleeding, treated with 
every ignominy, bearing the brutal blows of the soldiery 
with calm courage, firm nobility, and elevated dignity; 
he is The Christ ; no mortal could do this thing says the 
heart; it is the King of Heaven who suffers; he is a 
lofty victor through it all. The soldiers sing low and 
vulgar songs, deride Him, push Him from his bench, but 
he seems neither to see nor to hear. Until interrupted 
by a messenger from Caiaphas (a dramatic necessity 
which for the moment removes the Christ from the 
scene), the despair of Judas, his suicide, relieves the 
horrible tension of our sympathy. Judas raves, tears 
his hair, and hangs himself to everyone's satisfaction. 
Here ends the role of Iscariot as to the play ; but the 
modern Judas does not hang himself! No, he goes on 
'Change, becomes a money king, and is admired, 
courted, beloved, and feared forever after; he gives laws 
to kings, rules society, makes war, and overturns or 
builds up thrones on this still unregenerate earth. The 
scenes of Christ before Pilate are all superb; the majesty 
of the Roman Governor, Pontius Pilate, his real kind- 
heartedness and desire to save the Galilean ; the gorgeous 
Roman soldiery, mounted on pure white horses; the "S. 
P. Q. R.," that insignia of the power of the great Roman 
people, which no one even yet can see unmoved; the 
power of Caesar, even in this remote Jewish province — 
all was splendid contrast indeed to that noble, mournful, 
lofty figure, wearing the crown of thorns. The difference 
between him and Barabbus, the mean-looking thief, was 



OBER-AMMERGAU 

admirably managed, and the little conversation, Pilate 
standing high on the steps of his palace, the Galilean 
below in the crowd, was wonderfully telling. It was all 
managed with the most perfect and telling simplicity. 

That question which has never been answered — 
"What is truth?" and the episode of the dream of 
Pilate's wife — were all exciting to the immense crowd, 
who were standing about listening; the excitement 
when, at the suggestion of Caiaphas, Pilate concludes 
that "this Galilean is not in his jurisdiction" and hands 
him over to Herod, is enormous. 

Caiaphas was especially good; indeed, four actors, 
Lang, Zwing, Thomas Rendl (the Pilate), and Josef 
Maier, are as great as Salvini — as great as they can be. 
Thomas Rendl as Pontius Pilate was in the most con- 
summate good taste; he was astonishing in his excel- 
lence — a dignified Roman governor. 

The women played very subordinate parts, as they 
did in Judea; they were none of them pretty or particu- 
larly good, except the mother of Jesus. This part 
(played by a daughter of Lang, who is burgermeister, 
stage-manager, and everything) was very touching how- 
ever. She is a pretty woman. But nature has denied 
to these Bavarian peasant women the high type of 
beauty which she has bestowed on Josef Maier. Their 
singing was remarkably good ; it is a requirement in the 
village of Ober-Ammergau that the schoolmaster shall 
be a musician, and they are all taught music. 

Then came that mournful procession ; the Saviour fall- 
ing three times under the load of the cross; those last 
dreadful scenes. How can I describe them? But they 
are immeasurably dear and valuable to the Christian. 

101 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

As the curtain goes up on the scene of the crucifixion, 
the two thieves are already hanging on their elevated 
scene of punishment, but the principal cross is on the 
ground; they are driving the nails in His hands and 
feet! The cross is raised by invisible machinery. For 
twenty-two minutes, this man hangs thus suspended. 
However well supported by mechanical means, it is a 
terrible strain ; he is, by measurement, an inch shorter 
when taken down — temporarily, of course. The seven 
remarkable sayings, the scenes of the parting of the gar- 
ments, the three Marys at the foot of the cross, the 
mother's heartbreak — it is all there. At length the sol- 
dier thrusts his spear in His side, and blood runs out. 
They give him vinegar to drink — then a horrible shudder 
runs through His frame, and all is over. 

The descent from the cross is managed with great 
skill, and is a perfect copy of Rubens's great picture. It 
is slow, majestic, sublime, terrible. 

I am glad of the stately sorrows of that day ! It was 
profoundly affecting and hard to bear, but it has given 
me an inspiration to live a nobler life, and I hope its' les- 
sons will not forsake me on the bed of death. 

No amount of atheistic indifference could carry any 
man through the part of Josef Maier. He has played it 
four times — in 1870, 1871, 1880, and 1890. He says 
he cannot play it again, as he is now fifty years old, and 
he feels his strength abating. He is teaching his be- 
loved apostle John to take the part in the year 1900, if 
the Pope permits them to play it again. 

And now let us look for a moment at the history of 
this wonderful performance and the record of the Miracle 



OBER-AMMERGAU 

Plays. They were to the masses during the Dark Ages, 
what the public-school and the Bible is to the youth of 
to-day. Very few, even of the Kings, could read. 
There were no books. The monks carried about with 
them all the learning there was. Something to amuse 
and instruct the people must be thought of. The 
Miracle Play was the result. It was sacred and profane 
at once; often degenerating into coarseness and obscen- 
ity, it yet, in its way, taught the people religious truth. 
In the early plays the Devil was a favorite and gymnastic 
character. Jonah and the whale were also much intro- 
duced, and a manuscript copy of the first text-book of 
this very Ammergau play is still preserved in the Lang 
family, with long speeches by both these characters. 

Miracle Plays, after the Reformation, were generally 
thrown out and forbidden. In Chester, England, one 
of their strongholds, they were played for the last time 
in 1574. They have lingered however, here and there, 
in remote districts. But this did not reach the Bavarian 
peasant ; and when the plague came, he knew no better 
device to stay it than to vow to God the performance 
of this play every ten years. It is as holy a thing to the 
Ober- Ammergau people, now as it was in 1662, and no 
one should look at it without a recognition of this great 
fact. 

In 1845 tnev nac * the great good fortune to secure for 
their priest and father, Daisenberger, who was educated 
at the monastery of Ettal, and who saw the Passion Play 
in 1830. He was a dramatic author, as well as a good, 
religious priest. He saw his opportunity; retaining the 
good parts, he struck out the Devil and all his works, for 
the Devil was always a coarse, comic, and rather laugh- 

103 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

able character in the early Miracle Play ; he struck out 
all else that was unworthy, wrote and re-wrote the parts, 
and trained the actors. A half-century's training under 
the guidance of so learned and dramatic a writer, who 
added to his fine faculties profound spirituality and a 
passionate adherence to the faiths and dogmas of the 
church, might well create the excellence we find in this 
now highly intellectual drama. We must remember 
that the subtle influence of tradition and the acting of 
plays is the one recreation of their lives, hard-worked, 
sombre, and stern as must be the life of a Bavarian 
peasant. It has been their one channel for the two 
greatest passions of the human heart — love of approba- 
tion and the instinct of religious worship. To win 
fame, please his priest, and to honor God by playing 
worthily some part in the Passion Play has been the 
ambition of an Ober-Ammergau peasant for three hun- 
dred years. If a man be chosen once for a part, 
and is found unworthy of it, he suffers terribly and can 
hardly bear it. As my housefather said (as if they were 
synonymous terms) "He would either commit suicide or 
emigrate to America;" he could not stay at home to 
meet his shame. 

Now, as to the preparation of the play. The election 
of actors takes place in December, one year before the 
production of the play; and the members of the Com- 
mittee, before going into council, attend a mass in the 
church. In regard to the seven or eight principal parts 
there is rarely any disagreement, but in regard to the 
seven hundred minor parts there are doubtless antagon- 
isms and jealousies; but when the votes of the Commit- 

104 



OBER-AMMERGAU 

tee are made public no dissentient voice is heard. One 
of the older actors is appointed to take charge of the 
rehearsals, and from his authority there is no appeal. 
Thus, as they rehearse five times a week, the year of a 
Passion Play is very hard work ; except for their con- 
stant familiarity with stage routine, and unbroken habits 
of stage representation during the intervening years, 
they could not stand the strain. 

It is a thankless return for their hard work that some 
travelers call them a set of mountebanks acting for 
money. The truth is the individual actors receive very 
little. In 1880 Josef Maier got only £60, or $300. In 
1890 he only got three times that, while the proceeds 
were twenty times as much in that Summer. Every 
dollar of the money goes into the hands of a committee 
selected by the people. After all expenses are paid, 
the profits are divided into four portions, one of which 
goes to the church, the school, the poor; another for 
the improvement of the village, repair of highway, pub- 
lic buildings, etc. ; a third is divided amongst the taxpay- 
ers who have incurred the expenses of preparing for the 
Play, buying the costumes, etc., which are very expen- 
sive; the remaining fourth is distributed amongst the 
players, and as there are seven hundred, their individ- 
ual gains cannot be great. Every one, except the 
babies in the tableaux, gets something; fourteen marks 
to one of these was the smallest sum paid in 1880. 

Too much praise cannot be bestowed on the cos- 
tumes. They are gorgeous in fabric and color, have 
been carefully studied from the best pictures, and one 
who goes to see this Play, even remembering the re- 
sources of the Theatre Francais, will be astonished. 

105 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

The splendor of some of the more crowded scenes is 
rarely equaled; such a combination of severe simplicity 
of outlines and contours, classic models of drapery, with 
brilliancy of coloring, is not to be seen in any other play 
now acted in the world. These peasants have had 
other assistance than Daisenberger. The King of 
Bavaria, Ludwig II, he who made Munich a second 
Rome or Athens, who loved art so well, and his 
nephew, the Wagner-loving, crazy King, both had great 
interest in these humble actors. They gave them every 
assistance to see and learn what was to be seen in 
Munich, and sent them valuable stage properties. The 
breastplate of Caiaphas, which is made of real and very 
valuable jewels, was a present from the second Ludwig; 
and a beautiful statue of the last scene, the crucifixion, 
in marble, which stands near their theatre, was the gift 
to the town by the unfortunate mad King who drowned 
himself in the Lake of Starnberg. 

From 1 8 14 they had a schoolmaster named Rochus 
Dedlar, who was a man of almost inspired nature as to 
music. He^was a Wagnerite, no doubt, and composed 
all this very beautiful music, these choral chants which 
are the expression and setting of the Play. They re- 
semble Mozart's masses in a way, and are full of solemn 
beauty. Every day the school-children are drilled in 
chorus-singing and recitative; with masses and other 
church music they are naturally very familiar. At their 
meals each humble family sings a grace most harmoni- 
ously. A daughter of this Dedlar is still living in 
Munich, and the pious Ober-Ammergauites send her a 
yearly sum of money as a token of their gratitude for 
her father's services. 

106 



OBER-AMMERGAU 

I wish I could make you see that beautiful group of 
chorus-singers — "schulzgeister, " as they are called, or 
guardian angels — who first come on the stage. It lifts 
the play to its high plane of dignity and beauty at once. 
They are eighteen men and women in strictly classic 
costumes, — a full white tunic, with scarlet or gold or 
purple peplum, embroidered in gold, with bands of 
gold across the breast. They have crowns, or tiaras, 
on their heads. The women allow their long, luxuriant 
hair to float on their shoulders. The men are some of 
them very handsome. The rhythmic precision with 
which they enter, take their places, sing their strophe 
and antistrophe, then fall back to the right and left, is a 
marvel. Their motions are slow and solemn, their 
expressions exalted and rapt, their voices beautiful. 
Just before and just after the crucifixion they come in 
solemn black. I wondered very much how their 
dresses stood the drenching which they occasionally get 
— the rain and the sun is free to fall on them or scorch 
them, neither of which moves them at all, but all looked 
perfectly fresh the day I saw them, which was a fine 
day. They are always in the open. 

In any opera house in the United States I wish we 
could see so perfect a set of chorus-singers as these were. 
There must be many a soul, I am sure, which has felt 
nearer to those who are gone before, nearer to those 
spiritual existences, nearer to our own guardian angels, 
while listening to these inspired singers. 

After the crucifixion came the "rolling away of the 
stone," the Lord appears, and there is an ascension, 
which is as perfect a picture as all the rest. 

Many were disappointed at not seeing the youthful 

107 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

Christ, the scene in the Temple "Disputing with the 
Doctors," but this the learned Daisenberger did not 
attempt. The play begins, as we have said, with Christ's 
entry into Jerusalem. 

Thus the Passion Play is opera, tableaux, and drama 
all in one. As a literary work it is of the highest merit. 
It is divided into eighteen acts, and takes eight hours; 
but how incomparable were these effects as heightened 
by the background of mountain and sky, fine distances, 
and vistas of mountain and meadow, with the canopy of 
Heaven overhead, with birds flying in and out, while 
great banks of white clouds gathered and rested and 
dissolved and floated away as the morning grew to noon- 
day, and the noonday wore on toward night. This 
closeness of nature is an accessory of illimitable effect, 
and adds to the last and crowning charm. 

And so I listened to the story which to all of us has 
the most profound significance. How study has refined 
and educated these poor peasants! What a mine of 
talent, capacity, dramatic and musical, does this remote 
mountain village put forth, all because there was one 
guiding brain and the stimulus of a great idea to lead on 
and upward the talent which lies dormant in us all. 

I should not wish, in this age of doubt and apathy 
and atheism, to have this Passion Play brought away 
from its present sacred shelter; but I do wish that in 
every mountain village there could be the same thorough, 
careful, and artistic training which these people have 
had, which has made their faces "to shine like the face 
of an angel;" they do not look like peasants. 

What were our sensations, you will ask, as we wit- 
nessed this terrible realism? We forgot that we had 

108 



OBER-AMMERGAU 

any sensations; we were elevated as we are by the bed 
of death, in a shipwreck, or in hours of great emotion ; 
we were awed and stilled; and it has occurred to me 
since that to us who have enjoyed the blessing of being 
Christians all our lives, daily readers of the Bible, and 
attendants of church, whether the very familiarity of 
these blessed truths has not blunted our sensibilities to 
the wonderful dramatic poetry of this great story. In 
this play there is no allusion to the infancy of Christ. 
They are the "Old Catholics" who never keep Christmas, 
but who celebrate, not ''the Mother and Child," but the 
gloomy crucifixion. Every one who can go should see 
this play in 1900. And let no one be deterred by the 
fear that it is an irreligious performance. 



109 



Feudal Chateaux on the Loire 

I approached Chambord after a contest and a blood- 
less victory over my courier which put me in that frame 
of mind with which one should visit the more blood- 
stained Chateau of Blois later on. 

Couriers, however well mannered, have always one 
obstinate point which must be combated. They do not 
intend that their employers shall go where they wish at 
the time they wish. So long as you are wax in their 
hands, and "will be taken," they are the most valuable 
servants; but if you say "I will go to St. Peter's" when 
the courier has ordained that you shall go to St. Paul's, 
not all the powers of earth can prevail against them. 

Fritz was fatigued ; he wished to stay at Blois, where 
is an excellent inn, and not to show off the glories of the 
house of Valois until the next day. So there were no 
horses to be had. Touraine is a fertile province, but to 
hear Fritz hold forth when I summoned him for his 
orders after the mid-day breakfast, one would imagine 
that the equine race had disappeared from France. One 
would have supposed that the Houyhnhnms had been 
Protestants, and that a tyrannical Catherine de' Medici 
had cut off all their heads, to hear Fritz lament the lack 
of horseflesh to drag us to Chambord. 

It was a glorious afternoon. We were not at all tired, 
although Fritz declared that we looked exhausted. 

no 




z/r-mce Jktfw/eoM. 



FEUDAL CHATEAUX ON THE LOIRE 

There was the spirit of ' j6 in us, and the more we were 
told that there were no horses the more we determined 
to have four, if need be. I saw an amused gleam in the 
eye of the landlady, and I beckoned her to come to my 
room. She came. Her neat cap was very much on the 
top of her head, and triumph in her bright eyes. 
"Horses?" said I. "Oui, Madame," said she, "many 
horses. Much horses." Soon a neat Victoria and pair 
stood triumphantly at the private door. And there, in 
high hat, de rigueur, stood the discomfited Fritz. I had 
disdained to mention to him that he was expected to do 
his usual service. 

And in that way, by hiring a valet de place, I had 
broken his proud spirit. I willingly paid two francs and 
a half for this Roman triumph. Never did so little 
money buy so much victory. Fritz would no more have 
relinquished the pleasure of informing us all about 
Chambord than would Sidney Smith have given up the 
pleasure of talking down Macaulay. "Valet de place," 
indeed! "It is strange," said I, contemplatively, "that 
/can always get horses when you cannot, Fritz." 

But this was most ignoble. As the discharged valet 
de place trotted off on half-pay, I rose to the situation 
and gave myself up to dreams of Francis I. If ever 
there was a King worth dreaming of, he was the man. 

I had been dreaming of him during my journey 
through Feudal France, from beautiful, fortified Carcas- 
sonne, through Toulon, and Narbonne, and Avignon, 
Pau, etc., up to noble old Bordeaux, and here I was 
within an afternoon's drive of the house he built in his 
gay youth. Do you wonder I wished to circumvent 
Fritz? Touraine is always lovely, and history in all its 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

most poetical amplitude lay about me. Here I might 
follow up the story of the most gallant boy of all those 
three gallant boys who began to reign before they were 
twenty — Francis I, Henry VIII, and Charles V. They 
kicked kingdoms about as to-day they might kick foot- 
ball. I should recall the footmarks of their contempo- 
raries. Their spiritual father, Pope Leo X, was only 
thirty-six, and was walking about, laying his white Medi- 
cean hand on the shoulders of Raphael when Francis 
was picking up Titian's brush, and art was religion to 
them all. 

And I could remember the other famous contem- 
poraries whom time had not yet revealed — the gay Don 
Ignace, who was playing a guitar to some beautiful 
sefiorita, and who afterwards played on the heart strings 
of men as Ignatius Loyola ; and I might give a thought 
to the little German monk who was composing "Old 
Hundred" for us to sing four hundred years later on — 
one Martin Luther. And where were the three Mar- 
guerites, of Valois, of Lorraine, and of Navarre? Could I 
not reanimate Catherine de' Medici, Diane de' Poictiers, 
Mary Queen of Scots, and was even Joan of Arc, in her 
armor, 

"Thou fairest lily in the shield of France, 
With heart of virgin gold," 

to be seen? 

You see I got into better company than Fritz long 
before I reached Chambord. Yes, there it lay before 
me, serene and beautiful, the handsomest empty, useless 
house in France, lying serenely on its vast green plain. 
Nor can I give its surprising effect upon me as I gazed 
at its many gables, turrets, ornamental chimneys, vast 

112 






FEUDAL CHATEAUX ON THE LOIRE 

sweep of front, noble stone platforms and loggias. Oh, 
how lovely it looks as it stands there alone, a rectangle 
five hundred feet long, in pale gray stone ! It is a type 
of a vanished age, a powerful voice from a powerful 
past when Might meant Right. Here grew up, to 
gratify the caprices of the most romantic of lovers, a 
grand flirt on a grand scale, this exquisite Italian 
palace fortress. 

Francis I, when young Count d'Angouleme, had here 
fallen in love with the Countess de Thorny (Chambord 
had become Crown property under Louis XII, but it was 
simply a hunting box for the Counts of Blois). He 
found it a ruin, he left it a palace. He began to improve 
it in 1525, just after his return from Spain, that sad cap- 
tivity. He spent 444,570 livres in building his folly be- 
fore he died, in 1547 — an enormous sum when labor was 
so cheap, the masons getting only five cents a day. 

Stately as is the outside, the inside of Chambord is 
even more superb and wonderful. There is the famous 
spiral staircase, two corkscrews following each other, 
soaring up two hundred feet, until one emerges in the 
lantern, where Catherine de' Medici consulted the stars 
with Ruggieri, her astrologer. This colossal fleur-de-lis 
on the roof towers above a forest of pinnacles. There 
are twelve staircases at Chambord ! It was intended as 
a home for a royal retinue; and well it served its pur- 
pose. Who could give any idea of its architectural 
anatomy. There are five hundred spacious rooms, many 
vast salons, once filled with rich furniture, rare books, 
costly pictures, and all the elaborate frescoes, stately 
sculptures, which their art-loving King gathered around 
him. Here once assembled the wit, poetry, and intel- 

"3 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

Iect of a cultivated age, surrounding Francis in his beauti- 
ful dress, the trunk hose and slashed doublet, the broad 
hat trimmed with jewels, one of the handsomest men of 
his day, in spite of his too large nose. 

Francis was always beautifully dressed. He had the 
Italian sense of costume, formed perhaps from his friend 
Leonardo da Vinci, whom he brought to France. This 
enlightened, gay flirt and unfortunate warrior — for he 
was always beaten by Charles V — founded the College 
de France and the Ecole des Beaux Arts. In fact, he 
was the father of the Renaissance in France and was 
the most magnificent builder of fine houses. Chambord 
was, however, his greatest achievement in building; and 
as one comes down to the great donjon, which is divided 
on each floor into four salles des gardes, one sees how 
admirably this chateau is arranged for defense. This 
was a fortress as well as a palace. A hundred separate 
lives, the soldier-King, lover, poet, student, and monk, 
a hundred beautiful women, in brocades and diamonds, 
might have lived here and have seldom met. It is an 
enchanted palace, guarded by Titan towers, and as we 
drove away, its pinnacles and spires, under the light of 
a new moon, looked like a fantastic army of plumed 
knights. 

In 1547, Francis I, the gallant Captain of Pavia, died, 
and the bright light went out of Chambord. It was 
never so gay again, although always a royal residence 
(until the days of the Terror), but was not again 
destined to so glorious a scene of royal frivolity as dur- 
ing the period from 15 15 to 1540, the days of the impe- 
rial power of Francis. The little monk and the Spanish 
soldier became the rulers of men's thoughts, and the 



FEUDAL CHATEAUX ON THE LOIRE 

struggle for religious ideas began. Persecution also was 
to reign for a couple of centuries. It gave name and 
title to the disappointed Henri V, the last of the Bour- 
bons. He never even visited it. The phantom of 
feudal power had passed. Chambord is the Don 
Quixote of palaces. And with persecution comes up 
the name of Catherine de' Medici, who lived much at 
Chambord. 

We drove back to Blois to sleep over it, and the next 
day attacked the Chateau of Blois. Right in the city it 
stands, for ages the residence of Princes and Kings, the 
haunt of bigotry, the stage of direful tragedy. 

It is a picturesque assemblage of the architecture of 
three great epochs — the thirteenth, fifteenth, and six- 
teenth centuries. It was destroyed after its occupancy 
by the Valois Kings, but Duban restored it. It is built 
on the site of a Roman camp, at the conjunction of the 
Loire and the Aron. Here was born Louis XII of 
France, called the "Father of his People." Almost all 
the political acts of this great, wise, and good monarch 
were performed at Blois, where he always lived excepting 
when off with his army in Italy. 

He had magnificent taste, and enriched this palace 
with a valuable gallery of pictures, and gathered books 
which became the foundation of the great library of 
Paris. Here one sees the fretful porcupine, the device 
of Louis XII, on the ceiling, walls, and tapestries — a 
curious emblem for this peace-loving King. Here died 
Claude of Lorraine, the wife of Francis I, and here died 
Anne of Brittany. And here also lived cruel Catherine 
de' Medici. Here secret duel and assassination were the 
order of the day; here magnificent fetes and pompous 

115 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

ceremonials were constantly happening; and here, on 
December 23, 1588, the Due de Guise, head of the 
Catholic League, was foully murdered, and the next day 
was assassinated his brother, the haughty, unscrupulous 
Cardinal de Lorraine — all because they stood in the way 
of Catherine de' Medici. The Loire ran red with blood. 
This castle is picturesque, as what is not picturesque 
in the Valley of the Loire? As a mediaeval curiosity, 
enlivened for us all by the novels of Dumas, Blois is 
interesting. 

Fritz had forgiven me, and so he made no trouble 
about horses when I told him that we would drive to 
Amboise and to Chenonceaux. A pretty drive from 
Blois brought us to Amboise, now the property of the 
heirs of the Count de Paris. A charming park, well 
cared for, surrounds it for several miles, and, standing 
high on a bluff, rises this vast and powerful citadel. 
Enormous towers ninety feet high and forty-two feet in 
diameter are at either extremity. A carriage road cut 
through the solid rock took us to the top, whence we saw 
a picture of romantic beauty. 

The chief attractions of Amboise are its eighteen cen- 
turies of historic associations. Here occurred tragic 
scenes, sieges and battles, bloody butcheries, and 
Machiavellian plots, pompous ceremonials, and sumptu- 
ous fetes. Noted births, deaths, and marriages all 
occurred here. Here was born Charles VII, and here he 
was accidentally killed. Here Francis I spent his idol- 
ized youth. Here he received his cruel jailer, Charles 
V, and, with a magnanimity which nothing could surpass, 
gave him free pass to his own fair city of Ghent. Here 
Francis II and the beautiful Mary Queen of Scots spent 

116 



FEUDAL CHATEAUX ON THE LOIRE 

their honeymoon. Here occurred that effort of the 
Guises to get the young King away from his Jezebel of 
a mother, which she answered back politely but suc- 
cinctly by cutting off all their heads. So they were 
naturally silenced. Catherine had a little way with her 
which was most convincing and saved discussion. 

Here as a prisoner, in 1842, came Abd-el-Kader, and 
one can see the blood of the sheep slaughtered for his 
dinners on the stone floors. But Amboise has a little 
Chapel of St. Hubert — most lovely, worth coming to 
France to see. 

Only ten miles farther on stands Chenonceaux, 
unique in its situation, construction, and history. It is 
still as fair and beautiful as when Diana of Poitiers 
combed her black hair, looking up and down the river. 
"I throw my wishes out of one window and my regrets 
out of the other, ' ' she wrote to her royal lover, who had 
built her a dressing-room right across the river. This 
most beautiful of all the feudal chateaux, a monument 
of the Renaissance, spanning the river, and confronting 
us with memories of mediaeval days with its picturesque 
mass of lofty walls and hanging balconies, bold but- 
tresses, pillared arches, graceful doorways, and pointed 
turrets, is a most exquisite thing. Its principal rooms 
look up and down the Loire. Words fail to describe 
this chateau of Chenonceaux, this darling of architec- 
ture. After having been the favorite of Francis I, 
Diana fascinated his son, Henri II, husband to Cathe- 
rine, and Chenonceaux was purchased for Diana, 
and became a royal residence. Diana continued the 
building by extending the bridge to the north bank 
of the river and erecting thereon a handsome gallery 

117 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

and rooms. Thither her royal lover would join her 
after hunting. Her initial, "D," with a crescent, is 
joined to his everywhere. Here she spent eleven years. 
I wonder Catherine de* Medici did not poison or throttle 
her; but, in the midst of her luxury, her tasteful embel- 
lishment of the chateau, and her lawns and flower gar- 
dens, came the disastrous news that the King, Henri II, 
had been killed in a tournament. Catherine made no 
bones of turning Diana out, and gave her the alternative 
of going to the gloomy Chateau de Chaumont. 

Then came in a residence of thirty years at Chenon- 
ceaux for Catherine. She made it the arena of festivi- 
ties, pleasures, and artistic work. She took Francis II 
and Mary Queen of Scots there after the bloody butch- 
eries of Amboise. 

It is curious that a deserted wife could bear to live in 
a house which bore the reminiscences of a husband so 
faithless as was Henri II, but Catherine did not mind 
them. She enriched it immensely with her splendid 
Italian taste. She made the most lavish expenditures 
on park and garden. Here she lived with her forty 
beautiful women — "her forty fair frailties," as she 
called them. The old wretch! She used them to 
fascinate Protestants and Catholic alike, and lived 
through three decades. She would have triumphal 
arches, monumental columns, and statues erected, with 
leaping fountains, antique altars, fireworks and the 
thunders of artillery, and all kinds of devices and poetic 
descriptions to give her fetes the stamp of magnificence, 
novelty, and refined art. The long gallery on the 
bridge, filled with pictures, became one vast banquet 
hall, and the songs and jests of courtiers replaced the 

118 • 




I 




^wnce -louii jVa/w/eon m /S69. 



FEUDAL CHATEAUX ON THE LOIRE 

wishes and the regrets which Diana of Poitiers used to 
throw out to the fishes. There was Marguerite, the 
sparkling daughter of Catherine, whose love match with 
Balafre, the Due de Guise, she broke up because old 
Catherine wished her to become the Aspasia-wife of 
Henry of Navarre. 

But here one invades the great province of the novel- 
ist. Alexandre Dumas will tell you in his gay pages all 
that story better than I can. 



119 



Taine, Andre Theuriet, Mme. Adam, 
and Some Others 

In the Summer of 1887 I had a great bit of good for- 
tune in seeing in his retirement, at Annecy, the author 
of those splendid compilations and critical essays on the 
English dramatists, Hippolyte Adolphe Taine, the most 
accomplished writer of his day on literature. 

To go to Annecy was of itself a treat, the most beau- 
tiful of all the old Savoyard cities. Situated on its own 
beautiful lake, sacred to the memory of Francois de 
Sales, this exquisite town is the dearest of all the resorts 
of the antiquary within the radius of a day from Aix-les- 
Bains, which is saying everything. 

My cousin, the Countess Gianotti, had taken a villa 
there for the Summer, and had asked me to pay her a 
little visit. It was but a short distance from Aix by 
train, and I gladly accepted. She promised me not 
only a view of the lake, but a visit from Andr£ Theuriet, 
the author of "Amour d'Automne," the most delicate, 
pure, and flower-like of modern French novels, and she 
added on to the attractiveness of her welcome to the 
pretty villa where she rested with her beautiful young 
daughters for the Summer, a visit to Taine, who, with 
his wife and daughter, was her near neighbor. 

I had just been reading Taine's tribute to Ben Jon- 

120 



TAINE, THEURIET, AND SOME OTHERS 

son, and I could not but ask him how he could so well 
understand that somewhat incomprehensible genius. He 
pointed to his wife, an accomplished Englishwoman, who 
he said was his English teacher. Taine was a tall man, 
afflicted with a determined squint, but otherwise good- 
looking, and of quiet, not demonstrative address. He 
had the charm of a scholar, the free, flowing, almost 
ceaseless, way of talking, which reminded me of his 
writing, in which he never seemed to get to the end of 
his knowledge. 

He talked to me very much of our American writers; 
thought we were rich in historians. "Your Bancroft, 
Prescott, Motley, Irving; your poets, Bryant, Halleck, 
Willis, Longfellow, Lowell, Whittier; your novel writers 
[he went on with ceaseless rapidity] ; your Mark Twain, 
where shall I put him?" He looked at his wife for help, 
for he spoke no English. 

"Humorist," said she. "Universal genius," said 
I. "Out, out," said he; and he talked long and well 
about Mark Twain. 

Had he ever read "Joan of Arc," by that versatile 
author, he would have been most enthusiastic and more 
astonished. 

I was astonished that he could have understood Mark 
Twain, but on asking Mme. Taine, she said that "type 
had no secrets from Taine." 

As he talked with enthusiasm of the calm and quiet 
of the retreat by the Lake of Annecy, "a good place to 
write," he said, we rather took that as a hint to go, so 
left the great critic reluctantly. 

But the next morning he returned our call, attired in 
a soft felt hat and loose Summer costume, which rather 

121 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

recalled Tennyson, and charmed me with his simplicity 
and gentleness and his wonderful knowledge. 

Andre Theuriet came to luncheon with us. The 
simplest of men, with an air of such ease and indifference 
to outward things that it was impossible to believe that 
this country gentleman was the man about whom all 
learned Paris was at that time quarreling as to whether 
or not he should have a chair in the Academy. 

He was elected, however, and is one of the Immortal 
Forty. He was very much pleased with my enthusiasm 
over "Amour d'Automne, " and gave me leave to trans- 
late it. I found, however, that some one else had fore- 
stalled me here. 

He spoke of the Lake of Annecy as a perpetual in- 
spiration. Its gemlike atmosphere, the sun always 
going down in opal tints, and the rose light, inseparable 
to that neighborhood south of Mont Blanc, to its ample 
flora, those wild flowers of which he always makes such 
use in his beautiful stories. 

"And then, antiquity so near," I ventured to say. 
"It always seems to me that Time stands here, with 
finger on lip, saying, 'Respect some of my best work.' 

"That is true of all France and of all Savoy," he 
added. "That is a great help — one which your American 
novelists have not." 

"No, we have too much Present and no Past." 

"The Present alone is ours," said Theuriet. 

I have just come from the Feudal Chateaux on the 
Loire, the ever fascinating scenery of Touraine, and we 
talked much of them and their builders, particularly of 
Francis I, who, he said, was reading enough for all 
time. "It would be delightful to be able to write 

122 



TAINE, THEURIET, AND SOME OTHERS 

one's romances in stone and mortar, as he did," said 
Theuriet. 

''Do you remember what D' Israeli said of Munich: 
'A poet on a throne has realized his dreams.' 

"Yes," said Theuriet, "I have always wished that 
Louis of Bavaria had been better worth that noble say- 
ing." 

■ ' But it is much more the great privilege of genius to 
lead a little girl out of the fields and make us her slave. 

He bowed low to the compliment, and with the grace 
of a French gentleman said: "You bring honeyed words 
from your great country." 

He was very curious about America. He said the 
more he read about it the less he understood it. I told 
him that the confusion and the noise, the labor question, 
and the fight all floated across the Atlantic, but that the 
charm of the American home was silenced : that did not 
travel, but that was a fact. 

"But the American travels. I see many of them in 
Paris and Aix-les-Bains, and they seem so prosperous, 
so serene, so untroubled. Madame so sympathetic 
[he bowed to us American ladies] — Monsieur not so 
much so." 

We laughed and told him that he should come to 
America, where we found "Monsieur" so very attrac- 
tive. "No, too afraid of the sea," he said; and then he 
began talking, as all Frenchmen do, of Edgar Allan Poe. 

I think I never talked with any Frenchman who had 
not this stereotyped remark of his lips: "Did you know 
Edgar Allan Poe, and what was the secret of his exist- 
ence?" As I did not know him, I used to whisper 
4t Absinthe," with a look of mystery. Then the French 

123 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

questioner would nod his head, and seek no farther. 
This answer conveyed the idea ; but there was a woeful 
lack of local color, for I suppose poor Poe had to put up 
with American whisky, and perhaps had never tasted 
the fatal green fluid so well known to Frenchmen. But 
I struck on a subject as full of ennui to Theuriet as 
Edgar Allan Poe was to me. I asked him if he had 
known Eugene Sue, who lived at Annecy once on a 
time. 

I think he told me that he had gone to school to him. 
At any rate, he said that Sue had taught some boys at 
Annecy, after he was compelled to fly from Paris for his 
political heresies, and that no one suspected him of 
being a genius, although he had wonderful eyes. When 
I told him that I had known Sue's half-sisters, the little 
"Rose et Blanche' ' of "The Wandering Jew," he 
seemed to take an interest. "That makes him human," 
he said. Evidently he did not care much for Sue, but 
gladly heard about the little twin sisters, the daughters 
of Dr. Niles, who married Eugene Sue's mother. One 
has lately died in Europe; the other became Mme. 
Adam Badeau, and is, I believe, still living. 

They could tell me very little of their distinguished 
half-brother, whose enormous genius as a story teller 
once affected the world as only Stevenson has done 
since. When I told Andre Theuriet that I cried half a 
day over the murder of the poor white horse who was to 
save the twins, in my youth, as I first read "The Wan- 
dering Jew," he laughed and said, "That was indeed an 
embarrassing situation." 

He evidently found Eugene Sue as great a bore as I 
found Edgar Allan Poe, so we relegated these two to 

124 



TAINE, THEURIET, AND SOME OTHERS 

their immortality, while we talked of St. Francois de 
Sales, ever a present and interesting topic to a resident 
of Annecy, where they regarded him with so much ten- 
derness that it was made an article in the treaty by 
which Savoy was ceded to France in 1845, tnat his 
remains should not be removed from Annecy, where 
they have reposed in the Cathedral for centuries. 

What struck me in Theuriet and in Taine was the 
quiet absence of any appearance of ambition. There 
was perfect tranquillity, such as one never sees in any 
American man. That hope for something better in the 
future, that earnest unrest so characteristic of our men 
and women, to whom the future is so full of possibilities 
that brain, which Dr. Howe used to say "made so many 
Boston people go crazy, ' ' is not so uneasy there as here. 
To be content to be poor, comparatively unknown, liv- 
ing humbly, seems to even the most celebrated men and 
women in France their natural fate. A tranquil and safe 
livelihood they all desire, and most of them attain, but 
they are not envious of the Rothschilds. They do 
respect the ancien noblesse, but when Louis XI put an 
end to the feudal power he did not rub out that feudal 
influence, born and bred in the French people. This 
contentment with a little, this making so much of every 
day, this mediaeval pleasure in doing one's work well 
and in tranquil ease waiting for it to be appreciated, is 
so un-American that it is, or was, to me a perpetual 
study. 

I noticed it very much in Mme. Henri Gr£ville, a 
literary queen, whose romances are a joy to all contem- 
poraneous French readers, and highly appreciated all 
over the world. 

125 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

Mme. Gr£ville is a disciple of George Sand at her 
best — the George Sand of "La Petite Fadette," "La 
Marc au Diable," those lovely and pure romances, the 
white alabaster stone in Sand's variegated monument. 
I found her a very agreeable and most unpretending 
woman, living simply on the other side of the Seine on 
the Quai Voltaire, that interesting part of Paris where 
we Americans go so seldom except to buy books and 
curios, or to make our infrequent journeys to the an- 
tiquities of Paris, and there was a silent renunciation of 
the distinction which she might have claimed which was 
most beautiful. She became a great friend of mine. I 
hope that she remembers me with half the pleasure that 
I remember her, as, seated in her pretty salon, with the 
floor covered with fur, a taste she must have brought 
from Russia, where she spent many years, she told me 
so many interesting things which had happened to 
herself. 

"But tell me," I asked her, "why you never by any 
chance gave us the story of that dissolute and fascinating 
creature known as the Russian Princess in all the novels, 
of the period? The Nadeje of Balsac and the Nadine 
of the younger Dumas? You have no Dame aux Came- 
lias in your Russian stories." 

"It was not for lack of material," said Mme. Greville, 
the woman getting the better of the artist for a moment. 
"But I owed everything to those noble Russian women 
who were kind to me, and I lived in religious families 
and saw what never gets into the novels, a side of Rus- 
sian life most respectable and orderly and good, that I 
have tried to depict. There were many other pens at 
work with the Dolgorukis and Suvaroffs. It is a 

126 



TAINE, THEURIET, AND SOME OTHERS 

great part of the life of a romance writer to know what' 
to renounce. I never loved or envied the lurid side of 
life." 

Here, I thought, is the reverse of Ouida. 

We talked of George Sand, and she attributed her 
inspirations to Jean Jaques Rousseau. 

"But," said I, "did not Balzac inspire Flaubert, and 
both inspire George Sand?" 

"Oh, no! She inspired herself, and back of her was 
Rousseau. She was a woman inherently noble, and her 
later novels were written to excuse her 'fantasies,' by 
which she was crowded into a path which all her natural 
instincts abhorred." 

I tried to make Mme. Greville talk of "Elle et Lui" 
and "Lui et Elle," but she would not. She seemed to 
hate and to despise all that sort of criticism and not to 
love the author of "Une Nuit d'Octobre." 

The last of these immortals whom I was to see in that 
year was Mme. Adam, the editor of the Nouvelle Revue, 
of whom I had read such enthusiastic accounts, as the 
""beautiful Juliette Lamber," whose tender eyes, wreath- 
ing lips, and exquisite physiognomy had inspired this 
account, when she first started the Nouvelle Revue. 

"The vocation of Mme. Adam is for politics; of that 
fact there has never been a doubt in the minds of 
thoughtful men in America and Europe. Her clear 
judgment and trenchant opinions will soon find their 
natural and untrammeled outlet in the pages of her 
magazine. She is a living power in the intellectual 
pageant of the times, and many a politician whose ambi- 
tion for self-aggrandizement exceeds his desire for the 
good of the race [sic] will receive his deathblow from 

127 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

those rosy fingers armed with the stiletto keener than an 
Italian's dagger, the pen of a woman editor." 

This writer went on to say, I remember: "Looking at 
Mme. Adam and hearing her talk is occupation so de- 
lightful and satisfying that one has little opportunity to 
desire to take in her outward surroundings; yet while 
she presses the hand of a friend at the door as he 
departs a great light in contemporary French history, 
or while she rapidly scans the cards which are brought 
in unceasingly, one's eye travels over her noble editorial 
room," etc. "But those who have penetrated the heart 
of the rose find out how charmingly feminine, how nobly 
artistic are the private tastes of Juliette Lamber," and 
so on. 

She was doubtless a beautiful woman, stepping from 
a high position in the fashionable world to the function 
of dictator in a great paper. She became, it was said, 
the Egeria of Gambetta. 

But it was not my fortune to see her until twenty 
years after. I never saw those editorial rooms in the 
Boulevard Poissoniere which she made so famous. I 
was taken by an American friend of hers to her quiet, 
handsome house (in the Avenue de l'Alma I should say, 
but I do not remember where), and introduced to a fine- 
looking old lady with white hair, who presented to me 
her granddaughter. A Frenchwoman's dress always fits 
well, no matter how old she is, and I noticed the neat 
little feet in black satin boots. The address and wel- 
come of Mme. Adam were dignified and courteous. 
She offered us a cup of chocolate and a biscuit, and 
some very good music was being played by the composer 
from an opera which was to be produced that evening. 

128 



TAINE, THEURIET, AND SOME OTHERS 

On the walls were drawings by Bastien-Lepage, the artist 
of Joan of Arc, and she showed me a very funny note 
from him, with a hastily drawn pen-and-ink sketch of 
himself and his brother as they returned from fishing, 
two of the wettest, most bedraggled figures; it was his 
way of declining a hasty invitation to dinner, she said. 
Some one talked to me of the amusements going, advised 
me to see George Sand's "Francois de Champi" at the 
Comedie, the splendid spectacle at the Gymnase, "Les 
Femmes Nerveuses" at the Vaudeville (perhaps the title 
attracted me), and "Le Roy d'Ys, " which I had just 
heard at Aix — Mme. Adam making funny comments on 
all this catalogue. Then they all began talking of a 
piece which M. Vacquerie was to bring out at the Gym- 
nase called "Jealousy." 

They were all excited that a man who had hitherto 
written only classical pieces for the Odeon and Theatre 
Francais should descend to the Gymnase. And he, it 
was said, had answered that drama was banished from 
the house of Moliere, and that it was no disgrace to 
bring out his work at a house where " 'Le Maitre de 
Forge' and 'Serge Panine' had been played." 

I was immensely amused at the seriousness with 
which this question was argued by all present, and 
thought it typical of that interest in the drama and in 
music which is never absent from the French mind. 

Then a wit present told a story of a nouveau riche 
who wished to buy a picture of the "Curiaces, " those 
three noble brothers whom we remember in "Viri 
Romae." 

"How much is it?" she asked. 

"Three thousand francs," was the answer. 

129 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

"That is too high," she said. "Ah, could you not 
sell me two Curiaci?" 

That sounded rather American, and I was glad when 
the composer struck up again a waltz from his new 
opera, which was wildly danceful. 

Mme. Adam, in her gray, well-fitting gown, her still 
handsome face, her delightful conversation, surrounded 
by her children and grandchildren, still keeps her hold 
on that Esprit de Paris. She grows old gracefully. To 
her come all the artists, musicians, and men of letters. 
Fascination is a gift of the gods. It knows no limitation 
of youth or age. It is a quality as hidden as electricity. 
We are drawn to people we know not why. Mme. 
Adam was perhaps sixty-six when I saw her, and she had 
advanced boldly to meet Time, asking no concessions, 
yet I think she was enjoying life as well as she did at 
twenty-six — perhaps far more, for she had her own 
library of well-filled books to draw upon in her own 
brain. 

She has said some good things; such as "We need 
the friendship of a man in great trials, in momentous 
epochs ; that of a woman in the affairs of every day. 

In speaking of Ouida, whose talents she greatly 
admired, she said: 

"Ouida is like Dore — she requires a large canvas." 

She has always been a great admirer of Gladstone. 
She was charmed "that after two thousand years he 
found something new to say about Homer." She is 
herself a good Greek scholar, and has a profound appre- 
ciation of those mines of literary treasure. 

Her house is full of paintings, statues, bric-a-brac, 
and tapestries, books everywhere, and on the tapestries 

130 



TAINE, THEURIET, AND SOME OTHERS 

hung in little frames the letters, autographs, sketches of 
nearly every celebrity of the last forty years. 

It has been her good fortune to make a friend of Miss 
Helen Stanley, who has translated many of her articles 
for the American magazines, for Mme. Adam has never 
learned English. She knows her own tongue so well 
that perhaps she should be forgiven for not learning 
ours. The importance of other vocabularies did not 
seem great to women of her epoch. Now nearly all 
young French people speak English, and it is taught in 
the schools by a national edict. She is fond of Ameri- 
cans and always treats them graciously. 



131 



Bernhardt, Coquelin, and Others 

It was in 1880 that I saw Sarah Bernhardt, on her first 
visit to America. She was met at the theatre by a most 
superb and attentive audience. This modern Parisienne, 
born for "Frou-Frou" and " Marguerite Gautier," 
made a lamentable failure in "Phedre. " That master- 
piece of Racine was too large for her. Even her poetic 
admirer, William Winter, declared that there was neither 
"majesty nor tenderness in her impersonation, and that 
the nameless agonies of self-contempt, the remorse for 
degrading and remorseless sin, she did not feel." 

Now, as this is about all that there is to "Phedre, " 
this was a most discouraging criticism. The "rhymed 
anguish of the great Racine" wore out even William 
Winter. Measuring her with Rachel, she was a failure, 
but as an emotional, clever, dramatic artist of the sec- 
ond class, superb in depicting the modern morbid 
(which is a school by itself, not the antique morbid, which 
is another school), there was a versatile cleverness and 
power in her which won admiration and wonder. Her 
beautiful voice, her exquisite French, caused her to 
become a real teacher of that wonderful language. The 
singularity of her appearance, so thin that she was said 
to sleep in an umbrella case ; her long arms, accentuated 
by spotted sleeves, looked like snakes; her fondness for 
disagreeable animals — all these eccentricities were pub- 

132 



BERNHARDT, COQUELIN, AND OTHERS 

lished by her advertisers, until she had to deny some of 
the things said of her in print. "No, I do not sleep in 
a coffin," she wrote. "I prefer a bed. I do not eat 
stewed cats, lizard's tails, and peacock's brains. Do I 
like to play at croquet with skulls? Perhaps! I have 
the skeleton of a man who died of love for me! Perhaps! 

\ f No ! You ask me what my theory of life is. It is 
represented by the word 'Will,' just as my art is repre- 
sented by the word 'nature.' Quand meme y you know 
is my device." 

Sarah Bernhardt is the daughter of a Dutch Jewess 
mother and a Parisian Catholic father, the latter causing 
her to be brought up in a convent at Grandchamps, as 
a Catholic, until she was fifteen. After that her Jewish 
mother took her from the nuns, who were distracted 
with her pranks, and declared that she should be an 
actress. She was presented for examination at the Con- 
servatoire. To gain admission she had to recite a piece 
of poetry. All she knew was the "Deux Pigeons," by 
Lafontaine. Auber presided on the occasion, and as 
she boldly trotted up on the stage he said he saw all her 
future in her strange eyes — "comedy, tragedy, drama, 
and a bit of madness. ' ' 

"Assez, assez," said Auber, "you have told your 
fable very well, and are admitted." Instructed by 
Prevost and Samson, she made her dtbut in "Iphigenie 
en Aulide," in 1862. She did not make a success; 
Sarah has never been classic. She forsook the "Maison 
de Moliere" for the "Gymnase," from which she ran 
away to Spain; re-appeared at the Theatre Port St. 
Martin under an assumed name ; played the part of the 
Princess Desiree in the "Biche au Bois" ; and even sank 

i33 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

so low as to sing in the choruses. Afterward she made 
an engagement at the Odeon, where she appeared in 
1867, on Moliere's birthday, as Armand in the "Femmes 
Savantes," and began to be famous. 

Here in the next five years this original and eccentric 
woman produced "Zacharte in Athalie," her first the- 
atrical success, to be followed by a great day of triumph 
by the creation of Zanetto in Francois Coppe's "La 
Passant," in 1869, and in "Ruy Bias," in which she 
played the part of the Queen of Spain, and showed herself 
an artist. These two pieces attracted the attention of 
Perrin, the reconstructor of the Comedie Franchise, who 
offered her an engagement. This, to a French artist, is 
the culmination of human hopes. She, however, made 
two failures — first one in "Delila, " and the other as 
Cherubin in the "Mariage de Figaro." But Octave 
Feuillet's "Sphinx" brought the extraordinary powers 
of this fine, passionate, gifted actress to the fullest devel- 
opment; and although, after her, Croizette, who 
appeared in the same piece, gained the greater applause 
of the multitude, Sarah always commanded the appro- 
bation of the critics. 

I have seen her at her best in Theodora, a part 
absolutely made for her, and at her very worst as Joan 
of Arc. I can conceive of no greater power of failure 
than she displayed in this familiar story, in which she 
was dwarfed by her dress, by her monotonous mono- 
logue, which William Winter found so tiresome; nor 
anything so consummate as her success in the wily wife 
of the learned Justinian, where she jumps from the 
feeder of the bears to a throne, the great Theodora. It 
was immense. 

i34 



BERNHARDT, COQUELIN, AND OTHERS 

She can die better than any other actress on the 
stage. I once saw her die from slow poison. I forget 
the name of the play, but she hears, as she is losing 
sight and hearing, the voice of the man she loves seek- 
ing to enter. Her groping for her lost senses, her effort 
to shake off the clouds of the insidious draught, the final 
sudden drop forward dead, as her lover enters, was per- 
haps the finest dramatic death ever seen. It is horrible ; 
it is bad art to represent death on the stage; but if it 
must be done, let Sarah do it. She has a terrible gift 
that way. 

At times she is very pretty, exquisitely graceful ; her 
soft brown hair curls in fringes about her forehead, she 
can be as feminine, as alluring, as coquettish, as sweet 
as she pleases. 

She made capital out of her defects, and made her 
thinness so attractive that she was sought for by all the 
artists in tea gowns. There were one hundred and fifty 
full-length portraits of her in the Salon in twelve years. 

Of her curious taste in animal pets I once had an 
illustration. I was staying at a hotel in St. Louis. She 
came along in her private car to play an engagement in 
that city. She desired to take up her quarters at my 
hotel. I think it may have been the Planters' House, 
but she declared that she must bring her beloved snakes, 
a box full of them, to sleep in her room. All the ladies 
in the house protested, and the divine Sarah and her 
snakes slept in her car. 

She also pets a scratching wildcat, which tears her 
hands. Here comes out that character which she 
assumes so well in Theodora — of the daughter of the 
bear trader. She dresses her parts superbly. " Wedges 

i35 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

of gold! great anchors, heaps of pearls, inestimable 
stones, unvalued jewels." Splendid, brilliant, fantastic, 
odd, Sarah Bernhardt is an exceptional creature, a new- 
departure of the human race. She is very rich, she 
saves her money — here her Jewish blood comes to her 
rescue, although French actors are apt to be provident ; 
Berthelier, whom some one called the Lester Wallack of 
Paris, died, in 1887, very rich, leaving two large houses 
and a splendid collection of pictures. He had played 
an enormous number of roles and died universally 
respected. I saw him in "Le Dragon de la Reine, " 
very handsome and gallant, just before he died. 

Sarah Bernhardt is said to have given her son, 
Maurice Bernhardt, a handsome dot, 50,ooof, when he 
married the Princess Jauboulouski, who was a fellow 
student of some American artists at Julian's, in Paris. 
They described her as "pretty but dangerous." 

A very handsome actor in Paris, named Damala, is 
called "Sarah Bernhardt 's husband." I believe that she 
went through a marriage ceremony with him, but soon 
divorced him. When I saw him he was playing "The 
Ironmaster" with Jane Hading, one of the most beau- 
tiful women I ever saw on the stage. They were neither 
of them such great geniuses as is Sarah. 

This distinguished woman has now grown rather stout. 
She is not her old self, but she is something very fine still. 
Born in 1845, she is but a little over half a century old, 
and has twenty years yet before she will reach the age 
at which many a French actress has made a conquest of 
her public. 

All good Americans who have been to Paris will feel 
a pleasant sensation as I name Coquelin, prince of the 

136 



BERNHARDT, COQUELIN, AND OTHERS 

great dramatic art. I had the pleasure once to cross the 
ocean with him, and to talk of the curious tribute to him 
paid by the Comedie Francaise when he tried to leave it. 
He was just then returning to Paris, out of which he 
could no more live than a humming bird could live out 
of a flower garden. He was a Boulevardier in his heart, 
but he had enjoyed America and his great American 
triumph. He had never been more admired or appre- 
ciated. 

I showed Coquelin what had been written about all 
this and about his coming to America. He laughed 
and refused to talk of it, but he acknowledged its cor- 
rectness. 

Coquelin argues that he has served his time out; that he has 
made them laugh a quarter of a century, and that he has been but 
poorly paid. It is evident that he was sighing for some of our Amer- 
ican dollars. No one can deny that Coquelin has been one of the 
most active and useful of all the workers at the Comedie. What will 
it be without him? He is the best comedian in the world; no one 
can speak too highly of him. To see him play " Le Parisian " is to 
see the dramatic art at its culminating point. But will he be so good 
out of his setting? There are thus two sides to the question. What 
has the Comedie Francaise done for Coquelin? 

Among his celebrated contemporaries are Delannay and Got. 
The former, it is argued, does not claim his right to leave, and does 
not go to make money in the provinces of his renown gained at the 
Francaise. Got is still in his place, although legally he has won the 
right to " retire into the cheese." Public opinion is against the literal 
interpretation of the legal contract which enables an actor to retire 
after twenty-five years' service with a pension, and also to commute, 
so to speak, his vacations, taking them all in one lump. That is to 
say, so intensely do the Parisians desire Coquelin, so immensely do 
they appreciate him, that they do not intend to give him up. 

Still, no one can compel Coquelin to play at the Comedie any 
more than we can compel a nightingale to sing. He will go to Amer- 
ica if he chooses; and happy shall we be to get him. Coquelin cannot 
repToach the Comedie with any neglect or inattention. He has the 

137 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

highest position which an artist can desire. They have put him in 
the best place, the highest rank. He is the first comedian of his day 
in the city where theatrical fame is most considered and most to be 
desired. Indeed, people have stopped praising him, as no one speaks 
of the light of the sun— it is an established fact. His presence has 
made the fortune of the Com£die; his absence threatens it with ruin, 
and even the public asks, almost plaintively, "Can you forget, Coque- 
lin, all our flowers, all our praises, all our tears, when you were 
sublime and inspired— all our smiles when you were funny, all our 
applause when you were clever? Of all our applause does no souve- 
nir remain in your heart?" 

They urge that an artist has, above all, his moral contract with the 
public, and that every great artist respects it. I was much touched 
to hear the message which old Alboni sent in before she began to 
sing at Aix. She was so lame and so heavy that she could not stand, 
but she sent a polite message that she " trusted her audience would 
forgive her, and would not think her disrespectful if she sat during 
her song." Now, that was the feeling of the true artist, respecting 
herself and respecting the public. The Parisian press feels aggrieved 
at the cool manner in which Coquelin takes the key from the door 
and shuts it behind him, as if it were a house he had hired, and now 
leaves, without a regret for the house or for the public or for his com- 
rades or for his friends. They remind him that for him the authors 
have written important roles, that for him they have all worked, that 
the French dramatic literature has been influenced in his favor, and 
they claim that he simply balances himself upon his "talon wage" — 
great toe — and says, " De quoi te meles, tu, faquin?" They are 
wounded to the quick ! 

But they must remember that Coquelin has rescued Moliere for 
their repertoire; that indeed upon him has fallen the mantle of his 
distinguished predecessor. The renown of a comedian is never, 
however, his own property; he has to consider his author, his public, 
his collaborateurs. Again, if he does not wish to play here he cannot 
be forced. "He is not Mascarille, between two gendarmes." Genius 
is always free — alas! it is sometimes freaky! 

It is doubtful whether his marvelous diction, his exquisite fun, 
his superhuman cleverness, will be as much appreciated in Buenos 
Ayres and New York as it is in Paris, where people go to the theatre 
every night and make the dramatic art a study — and a profound one. 
These admirers claim that if Coquelin thinks more of money than of 
his fame as an artist, that it is a sign of approaching decadence. In 

138 



BERNHARDT, COQUELIN, AND OTHERS 

fact, the critics try every possible art of satire, of abuse, of sugges- 
tion, of advice, of threat, even, to make Coquelin stay here with them. 
They say if he comes back hungering and thirsting for his Paris, as 
he doubtless will, that they will then not receive him. 

Paris is an exceptional city as regards theatricals. There are no 
such audiences elsewhere. A Parisian audience will mark the 
slightest shade of the delicate art of the comedian. It is a city of 
artists. Its bourgeoisie live at the theatre, and, as one of the papers 
wittily says, there is a subtile agent in the air, a sort of microbe, 
which enlarges the mind for the critical faculty, which excites the 
fancy and improves the taste. It is this neat decision which gives 
an artist the " medaille d'or," the appreciation of Paris. Ask any 
painter, musician, or actor if he feels the same inspiration out of 
Paris that he does in it. He will tell you that away from Paris he 
feels no inspiration; that he does not work with the same energy or 
spontaneity. When Coquelin, after dining in the Rue Lafayette, goes 
to the Theatre Francais he is full of this Parisian fever — he burns to 
be superior to himself. 

This is so unlike our way of looking at things in America. We 
do not hold the dramatic art in the same esteem. I was one day 
talking with a lady, eminent in literature, of a high social position in 
Paris, whose daughter had gone on the stage. She said that an 
eminent tragedian in America, whom we all knew, had just broken 
his contract with her daughter, treating her very badly. That she 
intended publishing all the letters. She said that the one evil the 
young lady had not been warned against, the utter unreliability of 
managers, was the great evil attending the dramatic art in America, 
and that it was a most severe evil for the young artist. She quoted, 
with some decided expressions of approval, the better system in 
France, by which both parties are bound. 

After enjoying seeing Coquelin and his son, who is 
his image, play together on the steamer some charming 
farces, I had the pleasure to see them together at the 
house of Dr. Brachet in Aix-les-Bains, a hospitable 
house always open to actors. We went to picnics to- 
gether, and Coquelin brought his old mother, to whom 
he was most kind, like all French sons. Coquelin Cadet, 
his brother, was of the party, and as funny and as awk- 

139 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

ward as he can be on the stage when he prefers to play 
the gawky. The pretty little Reichamberg was with 
him, as soft and sweet an ingenue as ever smiled on an 
audience. 

I once saw, at Mrs. Mackay's, in London, Coquelin 
Cadet and Mme. Reichamberg play in a little comedy, 
of two people who had been left by the train. They did 
not know each other; they were left there for the night. 
The only stage property was the lady's trunk, which she 
sat upon. Coquelin Cadet attempted to share her seat, but 
she immediately rose. He then shouldered his umbrella, 
as if it were a rifle, mounted guard, and marched up and 
down to protect her. He finally asks her if she is 
married, and her "Non, Monsieur, Je suis veuve" 
was accompanied by such a look of supreme modesty 
and ladylike caution that the whole audience shrieked 
with laughter. Out of this very slight material these 
two great artists, imported by Mrs. Mackay, at an im- 
mense expense, to amuse the Prince, kept us laughing 
for an hour. 

I saw Mounet-Sully's Hamlet, which struck me as 
hysterical. I never could admire that actor. Indeed, 
it seemed to show what a great dramatist Shakespeare 
was, that he could draw two characters so diametrically 
opposite as Booth's Hamlet and Mounet-Sully's Hamlet. 
As in portrait painting, it is not the person painted, but 
the artist who paints himself. Therefore, 

" This is the Jew 
That Shakespeare drew " 

cannot be exact: it is the actor's interpretation of the 
part. It is Irving's Jew or Mounet-Sully's Jew. 

Coquelin impressed me as a very remarkable person, 

140 



BERNHARDT, COQUELIN, AND OTHERS 

of great common sense and some learning. Unlike most 
actors, he was a very good talker, and eloquent in his 
own words besides those which were set down for him. 

I once asked him why he never played Romeo. He 
said: 

"Nature decided that question for me by putting my 
nose, on my face, the wrong side up." 

Yet with all the turned-up nose and the plainness of 
his features, Coquelin can look like anybody — hero, 
general, gentleman, poet, priest, and lover. His face is 
a willing mask, obeying the impulses of his versatile, 
original, and remarkable brain. 

The most famous of Coquelin's successes is doubtless 
"Mascarille, " in the mingled wit, impertinence, and glori- 
ous rollicking humor of this king of dishonest varlets. 
The French will go to see him play it twenty times in 
one Winter, and if he varies a hair from his well-known 
impersonation they will hiss him. He loves this 
demand; it shows such appreciation. 

The part of the drunken man in "L'Aventuriere" is 
again the triumph of genius, as he sits in a chair in a 
sort of drunken sleep, yet, by his wonderful facial 
expression plays the whole comedy. Equally perfect 
is he in the "Gendre de Monsieur Poirier," as he 
assumes the suddenly rich Parisian grocer. Far greater 
and more delightful is he in these parts where he can 
indicate the noblest emotions; for Coquelin is a true 
artist, and he knows that, as much as his audience may 
laugh with him, it is well to give them a good heart 
thrill occasionally. 



141 



Coquelin and Some Others, Again 

In my little paper published in "The Times' Review 
of Books and Art" of Nov. 6th, I mentioned that "we 
guests at Aix often went to picnics with Coquelin." I 
have received several letters on that subject, asking 
what I "meant by a picnic." 

The people of Aix, being composed of the inhabit- 
ants of all nations, many Italians among them, and hav- 
ing all about Aix the loveliest places to visit, often 
formed a combination party, each one invited by Dr. 
Brachet for an excursion of seven or it might be twenty 
miles to dine at Chambery or at Annecy, or even a much 
longer excursion to the Grande Chartreuse, or to the neigh- 
boring Chatillon, where we got an excellent dinner, and 
saw the exquisite sunset on the Dauphinoise Alps, driving 
home in the still evening air, and choosing a favored 
guest for our carriage group. Then, if we wished, we 
would sup together at the Grand Hotel d'Aix, insuring 
an afternoon and evening of great pleasure, each one 
paying his or her proportion of the expense. That was 
our picnic. 

One can imagine what a piece of good fortune it was 
to capture Coquelin, or old Toole, the English actor, for 
such an expedition — men who were both really and pro- 
fessionally bound to be amusing. 

I remember that Lady Sefton brought Toole, the actor, 

142 



COQUELIN AND SOME OTHERS, AGAIN 

who was very funny, to one of these al fresco entertain- 
ments, and we ate and talked on the stone terrace 
which runs out into the Lake of Bourget. We took a 
drive of several miles; we ascended and descended the 
famous Napoleon road, over the Mont du Chat, that 
curious peak which looks as if its varied outlines had 
been cut out by the scissors. All these queer moun- 
tains, which are near Mont Blanc, have the jagged out- 
line, as if nature had tried to get down from that perilous 
height by a series of gigantic stairs or steps. 

This formation of hill in the Jurassic limestone is 
unlike anything which I have seen elsewhere, and, 
ascending from the tropical verdure of Aix toward the 
snowy giants of the Jura and the Dauphinoise Alps, it is 
most wonderful and picturesque. The Lake of Bourget 
has a peculiar peacock blue which is really unrivalled for 
curious beauty, so that it was pleasure enough to look 
at it by the dying sunlight and to breathe the soft air 
without also having Coquelin and Toole to keep one 
laughing; but we had both, sometimes, at these al fresco 
dinners, also the delicious Italian cookery to complete 
our pleasure. 

The Italians are very fond of al fresco entertainments, 
their fine climate making them possible, while with us 
over here they would be dangerous. Many pictures 
have been suggested by them, such as illustrate the 
stories of Boccaccio, up to the beautiful sketch of Tasso 
at the Court of Due d'Este, where he worshiped Leo- 
nora, and will occur to every one. A distinguished fete 
given by Dr. Brachet to the King of Greece could have 
made a dozen pictures. We were taken down a deep, 
sunken river, the Gorge of Gresy, on boats, by torch- 

i43 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

light. This was almost a subterranean progress; thence 
by carnage to Lady Somers', who hired Dr. Brachet's 
chateau at Gresy, where we spent the evening, until his 
amiable Majesty chose to leave us. I remember meet- 
ing at this fete Mrs. Wemyss, now dead, a most amus- 
ing woman, whose daughter married a son of the Duke 
of Westminster; also Lady Augusta FitzClarence, and 
I know not how many very agreeable scions of the aris- 
tocracy of England, France, and Italy. 

Our favorite picnic was to Chambery, the ancient 
capital of Savoy, which is in itself well worth a vOyage 
across the Atlantic to see. Its mediaeval architecture, 
its beautiful situation, the memories which cluster around 
it of Jean Jacques Rousseau (for one can go to see the 
pretty villa where he lived with Mme. de Warens, and 
to visit one of the wonders of this volcanic country, his 
favorite waterfall called Le bout du Monde), and coming 
home after a long drive through the lovely scenery, and 
with memories of Emanuele Philiberto in one's mind, 
the dinner at the inn in Chambery is a treat for the 
gourmet. 

The excellence of Italian cookery is beyond compare. 
The same drift of talent, a due sense of proportion — 
which shows itself in all their art ; that art which built St. 
Mark's at Venice and the Duomo at Florence, Palladio's 
churches, and the Cathedral at Milan — comes out in their 
cookery. Their cooks are Michaelangelos and Leo- 
nardo da Vincis in a humble sphere. 

They, of course, can cook macaroni as no other peo- 
ple can cook it. They apply cheese admirably. Choux- 
fleurs aux Parmesan is a different conception in Italy 
from cauliflower with cheese here. It is not that it has 

144 



COQUELIN AND SOME OTHERS, AGAIN 

been translated, but that when we eat it we are trans- 
lated! Oh! how good it is at Bologna, that city of 
learned women, professors of Greek, and fine pictures. 
They have the Parmesan at hand, and the melting deli- 
ciousness with which it enters the very soul of the maca- 
roni or the choux-fleur is enchanting. They have the 
only perfect sweet oil in the world. No cotton-seed 
abominations, but the golden liquid, full of Italian sun- 
shine, with no marked taste. It simply lends a "lam- 
bent richness to the whole." 

They cook game — especially their own beccafico — well ; 
but I would rather hear these little birds sing than eat 
them. Their cookery suffers no loss of flavor from the 
fire. They do not dry up things. Their roast lamb with 
pistachio nuts is right out of the Arabian Nights ; nor do 
I dislike that flavor of a clove of garlic added to roast 
mutton. 

For all sorts of dishes, with truffles, cockscombs, 
mushrooms, and olives, added on to filet de boeuf 
chicken, game, and fish, they are unrivalled. They have 
learned, owing to their sense of proportion, that the 
onion and garlic are to cookery what accent is to speech. 
Nor do they make either trop prononce'e. Their frit l tat l a 
is excellent, and one gets a good one in the humblest 
inn. Even the porter at the door of a great house sits 
eating a frittata, also a dish of frog's legs, which are so 
well cooked and of such a delicate brown that the hungry 
American envies him. With his flask of Chianti and his 
loaf of excellent bread, the Italian porter does not look 
unhappy. 

They give you, in country houses, for an Italian mid- 
day breakfast, a bit of soup, very savory, probably made 

i45 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

of chicken; then one plat, possibly liver or kidneys; 
then a huge dish of macaroni with meat through it ; and 
after that a white curd species of blanc mange, covered 
with powdered sugar and cinnamon, very good; some 
excellent pastry, a bottle of Vino Santo, a cup of coffee 
or chocolate, and bread of unrivaled whiteness and light- 
ness, and butter which is like glorified cream. 

Our mid-day breakfasts at Aix were cosmopolitan 
gems — steaks and chops for the Americans, cold meats 
and salads, always cold roast chicken with the delicate, 
delicious salads, pastry absolutely perfect, and the wine 
of the country, also strawberries every month in the 
year, and figs and apricots. 

Thus we picnicked with Countesses and with Co- 
quelin, or the King or the old Emperor of Brazil, or the 
Princess Louise, or with that most attractive of Russian 
Princesses, of whom there are always many at Aix (I 
reserve my best story of one, a real romance, for some 
future number), we had at Chambery a really grand din- 
ner. Our parties were often fifty people. The suave 
host of the Lion d'Or must be a Rothschild by this 
time. The gentlemen would order many wines — as the 
Falernian from the Bay of Naples, the wine of the poets ; 
the Lacryma Christi, from the loose volcanic soil of Mount 
Vesuvius; the dark Grigno Vino from the vineyards of 
Artesan and Monferrato; the Montepulciano, Victor 
Emmanuel's favorite wine. "Montepulciano d'ogni vino 
el Re" was always quaffed by the Italians at our picnics. 
Its brilliant purple color, like an amethyst, the aromatic 
odor, its sweetness, tempered by an agreeable astrin- 
gency, leaves a flattering flavor on the tongue, so I am 
told. I have never been able to drink wine at the 

i 4 6 



COQUELIN AND SOME OTHERS, AGAIN 

rate of more than half a glassful — "half of one per cent." 
— on account of rheumatism, so I describe them from 
the lips of others. I am like a blind man who describes 
beauty, or a deaf man who thrills with the melodies of 
Mozart, when I attempt to describe wine, but I delight 
in their beauty — and Italian wines are beautiful to look 
at, in their exquisite bottles, with a drop of oil on top to 
keep the wine sweet. 

We can all of us remember Hawthorne's description 
of the "wine of Monte Beni," when Kenyon visited 
Donatello ; and if the wine was half as good as the de- 
scription, looking at it must have been enough : 

The lustre should not be forgotten among the other admirable 
enchantments of the Monte Beni wine, for as it stood in Kenyon's 
glass, a little circle of light glowed on the table round about it, as if 
it were really so much golden sunshine. 

So I got the golden sunshine of the Italian wines, as 
I picnicked with Coquelin, with Anne Richmond Ritchie 
— the dear Anne Thackeray ; with Italian Princes, with 
many of the gouty Dukes of Great Britain, with Lord 
Aberdare, with Sir Victor Houlton, with Sir John and 
Lady Constance Leslie, with charming, gentle Lady 
Somers, with Lady Doneraile, with much goodly com- 
pany, and my dear friend Mrs. Wellesley. 

I remember with pleasure a friend, now dead, Miss 
Ricardo, the niece of the great political economist, a 
London society woman, who knew everybody. She 
was small, white-haired, brilliantly dressed. She looked 
as if she had stepped out of the "Siecle Louis Quinze." 
She was most amusing, most kind. Together we drove 
that I might see the spot where Lamartine wrote 
"Raphael," and to the Falls of Gresy, where Hor- 

H7 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

tense, the mother of Louis Napoleon, erected a 
monument to the young friend who perished there. 
Together we drove up to the "Tour de Cesar," and 
picked up Roman coins and bracelets, for it is full of 
Roman remains. The famous Tenth Legion camped in 
battle here ten centuries ago. I saw much of Miss Ri- 
cardo, for she never got tired of my mediaeval craze; her 
conversation was most agreeable; also that of the Mar- 
quise de' Medici, an Italian lady who had lived at Courts, 
and used to come to my rescue, if I was, by any chance, 
sitting alone at the picnic, and tell me stories of Victor 
Emmanuel (Savoy is at heart still Italy). 

The King was a mighty hunter, and had a mighty ap- 
petite; so he used to dine alone, and satisfy his hunger 
before sitting down to a state dinner. There, with 
sword in hand (he always leaned both hands on the 
hilt, which was jeweled), in full uniform, tightly belted, 
his breast covered with orders, this most kingly King 
sat at the head of his royal table and talked to the 
man next to him (generally our own Mr. Marsh, who 
was the Dean of the Ambassadorial College), but never 
touched a morsel of the splendid dinner which the best 
cook in the world served up to him. These royal ban- 
quets are generally dull to every one else, for the pres- 
ence of so great a man has ever a depressing effect. The 
guest must then fix his mind on the glorious past of Italy, 
or its present excellent cookery, or on the magnificent 
furnishing of the table, such as cups from Benvenuto 
Cellini, the vases and ornamental pieces of Capo di 
Monte, with superb porcelain, the gift of Kings, from 
Louis XIV, and so on, down to the Venetian glass like 
imprisoned sunshine. 

148 



COQUELIN AND SOME OTHERS, AGAIN 

At parties in Rome and Florence it was not the fash- 
ion to offer much refreshment — a cup of tea, some light 
wine, and a macaroon were all that were offered, even 
in American houses in Rome. A lady in Florence 
wrote: "I have been within the walls of four Italian 
houses at evening parties; no conversation, cold rooms, 
floors imperfectly covered with drugget ; topics — theatre, 
music, personal slander; and only in one house, whose 
mistress was a German, tea was handed." 

Well, I never had such bad luck as that. I frequently 
was cold and shivered, for there was never any fire; and 
the Princess Barberini sat with her hands in a muff 
when I went to see her, but her conversation was de- 
lightful. I must say, however, that the Italians are not 
hospitable in our way ; they do not feed you overmuch, 
although their dinners with the national dishes, the 
aqua dolce (being wild boar cooked with sugar and pine 
cones), the turkey fully truffled, the delicate entries, the 
delicious artichokes, the little birds, the truffles in a 
thousand ways, the fruit, the confetti, the patisserie, 
cakes and ices (tutti-frutti is an Italian invention), all 
seemed to me delicious. The music of their composers 
reminds me of the work of these confectioners (the Italians 
have so much genius!). It is so universal that they leave 
some to be thrown away on the ornamental, and they 
can afford to allow a humble Rossini to crown the feast 
with an edifice in spun-sugar occasionally. 

However, I have wandered far away from our picnics. 
Savoy is not a poor country. It is not often that one 
sees a hungry beggar there. Go where we would, we 
could order an omelet, enriched with morsels of kidney 
and bacon, frittata, a bottle of the wine of the coun- 

149 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

try, and fish, often from the lake, sure to be good and 
well cooked. Were it an auberge of any size, the man 
of the house was an artist, a cook. He might have 
been the chef of some Russian Duke, and his wife did all 
the rest. Often we trusted in luck, and drove off to 
dine on the sunset, if we could get nothing better. 
Sometimes we came home hungry, glad to find Mme. 
Guibert of the Grand Hotel d'Aix, who smiled when we 
said "Vite, vite, Madame! Oh, Madame, que j'ai 
faim." "Certainement, Madame," she would answer, 
scornfully, for she thought us fools — and we were, to 
leave her exquisite dinners (her husband had been chef 
to the Grand Duke Michael). However, she forgave us, 
and in fifteen minutes a feast of Lucullus would smoke 
on the supper table. 

Give an Italian a chestnut and he will make you a 
dinner. In Southern Italy poor people have not always 
even frogs or mushrooms to eat : they have only chest- 
nuts. In Southern Italy one sometimes sees a massive 
house looming up in mediaeval grandeur, with shafts of 
marble, columns of porphyry, lonely, unspeakably desolate, 
infinitely impressive, wonderfully grand. Some mem- 
bers of a ruined family shiver within these walls. Around 
this time-honored house cluster the tenants, shaking 
with malaria, pale and half- starved. They live on chest- 
nuts. Perhaps that is the reason they have learned to 
make such perfect stuffing for a turkey out of this nut. 
At a farmhouse near Florence one could get a fat capon, 
a chestnut sauce, a frittata, a bunch of grapes, a bottle 
of Poggio Secco, the sweet Italian wine ; but what one 
could get near Naples, excepting macaroni, I do n't 
know always fruit and fish. 

150 



COQUELIN AND SOME OTHERS, AGAIN 

I was generally astonished near Aix by the quickness 
with which our demands for a picnic dinner would be 
met in the humblest of inns. A table would be brought 
out, covered with a coarse, but clean cloth. Glasses, 
knives and forks, bottles of wine shining in the fading 
light of a Summer's sun; soup, tasting delicious; a roast 
chicken (the chickens are hatched roasted, I think, near 
Aix, and already stuffed with truffles); the clever, neat- 
handed patronne; the obsequious waiter; the salad — it 
all came and disappeared like a scene of a pantomime. 

And so we went picnicking with Coquelin and other 
celebrities. Of course, the acquaintance grew quickly. 
We parted when we reached the hotel ; perhaps we never 
were to meet again, but the day had been most happily 
and innocently spent in the most beautiful climate and 
the choicest scenery in the world. Aix is only two 
hours from Geneva, and we could drive from a point 
where we could picnic with Mont Blanc looking over 
our shoulders, a wonderful view, and see (bad luck to it) 
that horrible old prison of Miolan, one of those torture 
holes of the age of Louis XIV, the Conciergerie of 
Savoy. It is a ruin now, with its oubliettes and its enfer 
and other diabolical types of cruelty. But to sit reading 
its history of a Summer evening at its gates did not 
improve my appetite for dinner. 

Sometimes we picnicked on a side hill, carrying our 
baskets. I did not enjoy these so much, but I met 
very good company on these occasions; Hamilton Aide 
once, with his cousin, Miss Tennant, now Mrs. Stanley, 
and her brother. The history of the company of one 
Summer at Aix would include all the celebrities of the 
world. I saw an old, tall gentleman and an old, short 

151 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

lady wandering through the vineyards as the leaves grew 
red. They were the Prince de Joinville and the Princess 
Clementine. 

The Autumn at Aix is most lovely. I drove to 
the Grande Chartreuse on a glorious October day. 
It is one of the finest drives in Europe. I twice met 
Queen Victoria at Aix, but I did not go picnicking with 
her — I only saw her go by. I dined with some members 
of her suite. I knew very well Lady Ely, her intimate 
friend, who told me that she had herself carried up in a 
chair to the Chambottes, a high peak, to see if she dared 
trust the Queen. But the Queen declined even her tes- 
timonials and footed it up resolutely. The Queen then 
liked to walk. It was before her lameness. 

The cycleman flourishes at Aix. Everything flour- 
ishes at Aix — even modest merit. The flowers are of 
the choicest, both flowering trees and the beautiful wild 
flowers, from the cowslip to the wild orchid, and the 
purple colchicum, like a crocus. The peasantry are 
well-mannered, and the most healthy, rosy, white- 
toothed people, masseing everybody with impartial jus- 
tice, from the American Countess up to a Countess Nes- 
selrode, whose great-uncle is immortalized by a pudding 
which will long survive his flimsy schemes. They masse 
Kings and Queens, judges, deacons, actors, nuns, saints, 
and sinners impartially, to the great benefit of the 
massed. 

The fashionable doctors lead a very amiable life, in 
which principalities and powers are represented by the 
great leveler, rheumatism. To the discreet and evi- 
dently prudent brain of the doctor all people confide their 
secrets and their sorrows. He is a judge also of dancing 

152 



COQUELIN AND SOME OTHERS, AGAIN 

and deportment, and often leads the German cotillon, 
and watches with impartial interest the beginning of a 
brilliant career or the sad and sorrowful blight of an 
unsuccessful one. Men of society in the fashionable 
world, greeted in London, at Nice, and at Rome, with 
enthusiasm, these Aix doctors who lead off the picnics, 
might well keep bound volumes of their experiences and 
knowledge with the dates in letters of gold. 



*53 



Several Seasons at Aix-les-Bains 

Aix-les-Bains, August 5, 1886. 

This is a remarkable place for many things, in none 
more than the possibility of meeting distinguished peo- 
ple. I have met here, in twenty-four days, Coquelin 
Aine; Toole, the English actor; and last, not least, I 
have heard Alboni, the great, the inimitable cantatrice; 
she was the Alsace of "Semiramide, " the Rosina of the 
"Barber,'* the Anna Bolena, the Fides of the 
"Prophete," the Page Urbino of the "Huguenots;" for 
whose glorious voice Meyerbeer wrote his immortal cava- 
tina; the "Stabat Mater" of Rossini was written for her; 
Verdi's Mass as well. The theater of the Cercle was 
filled to overflowing, as the great elephantine woman 
came slowly down the principal entrance. She had not 
been heard for a dozen years, and every one was on 
tiptoe. It was a kind of solemnity. 

She sent in an apology, regretting that she must sing 
sitting in a chair. She weighed nearly four hundred 
pounds, and was very lame. I sat near her in the salle a 
manger, and can testify to her having had an immense 
appetite. Nevertheless, she gave up her dinner for the 
concert. But the illustrious cantatrice had but to open 
her mouth to cease to be a woman. She became a great 
church organ. Her first song was from "Romeo and 
Juliet." Her second, the well-known "O mio Fer- 
nando," and her encore was something of Meyerbeer's. 

154 



SEVERAL SEASONS AT AIX-LES-BAINS 

Of course, her voice had lost its freshness, but the style 
was incomparable. Alas! a sudden breathlessness over- 
came her at the end. She was, however, the last of the 
giantesses of a great school. This admirable cantatrice, 
one of the most remarkable artists of our day, lent her 
fine talent to the cause of charity on this occasion. The 
concert was in favor of the employees of the baths. 
Although Mme. Alboni retired definitely from the stage 
long ago, she cannot refuse to sing occasionally for a 
good cause, and I can testify that she sings to herself 
much of the time, for I have had the pleasure of hearing 
her. She says that her remarkable organ is not a con- 
tralto or a soprano, but a mixture of both, a sort of alto ; 
but certainly, for perfection in purity of tone, for extra- 
ordinary richness it is quite unparalleled. Jules Janin 
said that "she was an elephant who had swallowed 
a nightingale," a very witty, correct description; she 
weighed three hundred and eighty pounds. The enthu- 
siasm of the public was something wonderful. "Brava, 
rava, rava, " rang through the house, flowers bearing her 
monogram, all sorts of plaudits followed her. Her phy- 
sicians told me that she cried all night after this triumph, 
saying: "Is it not too bad that I have had to give up all 
these years of triumph!" It is a shame that a super- 
abundant deposit of adipose has kept such a wonder 
from the operatic stage. It is a marvelous souvenir to 
add to the many reasons which I have for loving Aix- 
les-Bains, for here I have heard Alboni. In private life 
Alboni was the wife of a humble-looking Swiss gentleman, 
who seems devoted to her. She was never handsome, 
having a full-moon face, wears glasses, pins her napkin 
under her chin as she eats one of Mme. Guibert's 

i55 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

very good dinners, and was a very jolly, laughing person, 
talking loud ; an enormous woman. 

The concert at which she sang brought together the 
good company at Aix, Lady Augusta FitzClarence, 
Lord Lamington, Count and Countess Lakens, Colonel 
Eden, Marquis and Marquise d'Adda of Milan, Comte 
de Vaureal, Count and Countess Brettes Thurin, Comte 
de St. Clair, Chevalier Bezzi, Viscomtesse de Thorsy, 
Princesse de la Tour d'Auvergne. Never was there a 
more distinguished, cosmopolitan society, than the com- 
pany at Aix. 

(Alboni died, I think, in 1892. She was a great suf- 
ferer from rheumatism, and her enormous mountain of 
flesh, which she tried in vain to get rid of, was always 
a dreadful burden to carry.) 

We had also, at the concert, the pleasure of hearing 
one of the principal ornaments of the "Comedie Fran- 
chise" declaim, Mme. Favart. She gave us Victor 
Hugo's "Pour les Pauvres," and "Le Missel" of Sully 
Prudhomme. 

She is a handsome woman, but I did not like her 
style. It was too theatrical. We also enjoyed the fine 
music of Colonne's orchestra, and heard his daughter, 
Matilde, the daughter of Irma Marie, sing very prettily. 
(Irma Marie was one of the first of the French opera 
bouffe singers to come to this country.) 

A very funny practical joke was a recitation called 
"Solo de Flute," by M. Huguenot, of the Theatre 
Francais, in which he seems about to play the flute, but 
never does. 

One evening we had an open-air concert, and some 
splendid fireworks. I made an excursion to a high 

156 



SEVERAL SEASONS AT AIX-LES-BAINS 

mountain, from which I saw Mont Blanc, the Rhone val- 
ley, the Dauphinoise Alps, the Jura, the Lake Bourget, 
by the glorious light of a red sunset, in unrivaled view. 
These are but a few of the delights of a sojourn at Aix- 
les-Bains. 

At the Casino Villa des Fleurs, which is not my 
casino, but another, they enjoy one of the most superb 
gambling rooms in the world. I went in to look at the 
gambling one evening. The play was baccarat, and play 
runs high. Every evening poor, crippled men and 
women are brought in in chairs, or by their guides, 
nurses, or maids, and seated at the tables, where they 
play until they are exhausted, purse and all, then are 
trundled out. There are many gamblers who are not 
crippled; young and beautiful women, young men of 
every grade; and Mme. Ratazzi, neither young nor 
crippled, but still pretty, although in her fifty-eighth 
year, and married to a young man, a woman of remark- 
able celebrity, or notoriety, as the case may be, and still 
a desperate gambler. She is a cousin of Louis Napo- 
leon. 

They give grand opera at the Villa des Fleurs. It is 
a pretty, coquette little theater. They have just given 
rather a careful representation of ll Lucia." There is a 
Miss Aline Jacob, who sings the role with perfect taste, 
charm, and simplicity, in the crazy scene especially 
touching. M. Massart is a good Edgardo; he sings 
these passionate accents with Italian fervor, has a rare 
power and a sympathetic fire. M. Manovey is an artist 
of merit. He gives his songs with authority, with sci- 
ence, and with perfect taste. M. Hyacinth is the first 
of the second tenors, and adds to the general success. 

i57 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

The chorus is well-dressed and well-trained, so in this 
far-off place, in a little casino theater, we hear ''Lucia" 
better sung than it often is in New York. 

We were destined to hear of the death of Wagner at 
this famous place. It dispersed the German crowd. 
The Crown Princess of Germany and the Princess Vic- 
toria have gone to Beyreuth to attend his funeral. 

What a singular history ! The French papers are full 
of the scene at Beyreuth, as the dead master lies in his 
modest house, Mme. Wagner at his feet, princes and 
grand dukes bring flowers to lay on his coffin — a noble 
tribute to genius. 

His face has been copied by several sculptors, and it 
will be a noteworthy one to preserve; large, fine features, 
a superb brow and the mouth of a genius, retiring, 
small, sensitive, with the underlip somewhat protuber- 
ant. He was born in 1811, at Raidix, in Hungary. His 
father was a friend of Haydn, of Cherubini, and of 
Mozart's pupil Hammel, so he was, as to music, born in 
the purple. 

I meet constantly here, people from the various 
watering-places and from Switzerland. The crowds of 
English tourists which usually flow thick and fast into 
Switzerland at this time have been interrupted by the 
elections. They are now coming like an avalanche to 
Aix-les-Bains. People are delighted to find a new spot. 
The Valasian valley, St. Luc, is the latest enthusiasm 
this summer. From the Weisshorn Hotel may be seen 
two hundred and thirty of the principal mountain peaks 
of the Alps. From the Dent du Midi to Monta Ross, 
from Mont Blanc to the Jungfrau, all is embraced in that 
immense panorama. The Matterhorn and its chain of 

15S 



SEVERAL SEASONS AT AIX-LES-BAINS 

Alps block the horizon at the end of the valley ; three 
glaciers, the Duraud, the Bella Tolla, and Touete Mague 
are all within easy walks. The air is almost always 
cold. The Hotel de Luc, fifty-five hundred feet above 
sea level, is said to be a good one. So, when I have 
finished my cure, I intend to go and have a look at it. 
The most recent American traveler reports that the prin- 
cipal hotels were empty everywhere but at Lucerne. 

Homburg is full, however; Vichy is full, at Aix-les- 
Bains there are recorded 12,248 visitors up to this date. 
About three or four thousand are here now. The little 
city of Aix is crammed, and I was amused yesterday, in 
paying a series of visits, to see what hardships and in 
what curious nooks and corners, people are willing to 
bestow themselves who certainly live better at home. 
Only the fine weather and the lovely gardens could com- 
pensate for these crowded, unpleasant quarters, to which 
some people subject themselves. 

To have coffee out of doors, to sit under the shade of 
trees, to hear a passing strain of music, to look up at a 
snow Alp, however, compensates them. At the Europe, 
the Grand Hotel, and the Splendide, the comforts are as 
great as they can be anywhere, and Aix is always most 
amusing with its cosmopolitan crowds. And there is 
much more amusement and less fatigue of dressing than 
at Saratoga or Newport. One gets that variety of com- 
panionship, the glimpse of famous people, the hearing 
of good music, the fun of "going a-shopping" to buy 
curious bibelots, which is left out of our American water- 
ing-place life. 

I had a long talk with Lord Lamington, who wrote 
"In the Days of the Dandies," after a dinner at Dr. 

i59 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

Brachet's. He had become an old man, but was most 
delightful, and told me some new stories of the famous 
Lady Vassell Holland. 

Aix-les- Bains, August 23, 1888. 

To-day we are taking our share of rain, and from my 
window, which commands a view of the Mont du Chat, 
I see nothing but clouds, yet Aix-les- Bains is so full 
that nobody can get a room who has not written, and writ- 
ten, and written. A more brilliant season has never hap- 
pened here. One of the journalists says: ''Unless the 
tourist will hide himself in a cloud of vapor from the hot 
baths, or in the plantations of the park, he could hardly 
remain over night. Even Sara Bernhardt could not get 
in. She, however, might wrap herself in a cigarette 
paper." They are never tired of laughing at Sara's 
extreme thinness. 

Truly this season is the most brilliant year known. 
One could begin with the great names of the Emperor 
and Empress of Brazil, the Prince and Princess de Join- 
ville, and go on with the Due de Montpensier, the Count 
and Countess de la Perouse, the Baron d'Ariseos, Min- 
ister of Brazil; the Count and Countess Causacchi, the 
Chevalier Pacchiotti, General Mezecappo of Naples, and 
old Mancini, the first Minister of King Humbert, dying, 
poor man, of cancer of the lungs. Numerically speak- 
ing, the Italian nobility are here in greatest force ; to 
be sure, some of them do not date back to Philip V, 
quite, who, when he mounted the throne of Spain, 
made a little journey of popularity in Sicily, and, to 
attach the title-loving to his throne, created a hun- 
dred dukes and princes. Charles III made three 
hundred; Francis I made two hundred Sicilian dukes. 

160 



SEVERAL SEASONS AT A1X-LES-BAINS 

It is true that dukes and princes are less rare in Italy 
than barons and counts. Many have been added on by 
the popes, who have titles to sell. The popes are very 
much encumbered by this aristocratic merchandise. 

There is even a story told, apropos of this, of a Mon- 
sieur Godet, in 1814, who was formally presented at one 
of the receptions of Louis XVIII, to a very magnificent 
Sicilian prince, loaded with orders and embroideries, who 
rather patronized Monsieur Godet, of whom he wished 
later to purchase some stuffs. " Please to remember, 
Majesty," said the latter, "that I am a Bourgeois of 
Paris," which he thought an older and less disputable 
title than that of prince. 

I hardly know when Aix is the more beautiful, in the 
glorious fulness of the vintage, or in the spring when the 
fruit trees are in blossom, when the nightingales are 
singing, and the wild flowers are in blossom. The prim- 
roses are yellow on every hillside ; the cowslips and the 
oxslip are their neighbors. The yellow kingcups are like 
Danae's shower of gold, and the pretty little purple 
grape hyacinth keeps them company, while the fields of 
lilies of the valley open on every side. I have never 
experienced greater rapture of the ear than to hear the 
nightingales. As I am brought from my bath of a 
morning (a terrible sufferer again from rheumatism), I 
am greeted with such a chorus, in the park, of these 
delicious creatures that I forget my pain, and think that 
I am the queen enjoying a birthday. Their tender notes 
seem almost too sweet to be joyous. 

The number of wandering princesses increases at Aix, 
and they are becoming as plentiful as blackberries. I had 
the honor of dining with one the other day, the Princessa 

161 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

della Marmora, and also Contessa Gabriella Pionasco 
D'Airasca. How beautiful these Italian names are! 
Also, in the same company, was a distinguished senator 
from Turin. These Italian nobles have the simplest and 
most charming manners, and I learn, as I come near the 
great, how very much they are like our best bred people 
at home. In fact, as Lady Mary Wortley Montague 
said, they are ''men and women." She said, in all 
her travels she had met only two kinds of people, 
"men and women." These are well-bred men and 
women. 

I do think they have more flattering manners than we 
have. They never say disagreeable things. They never 
tell you what certain Anglo-Saxons feel it "their duty" 
to tell you, what they call "plain truths," but which 
sound like disagreeable criticisms. Their manners might 
serve as models for us in simplicity, kindness, and polish. 
The people here now are mostly Italians, although we 
have the Duchess of Manchester, in whose suite is James 
Gordon Bennett and several young English noblemen 
and soldiers. The Princess Louise goes to the theater 
every evening with her attendant, Miss Harvey, an 
Italian Count Massa, another Italian named Foutana, 
and I learn not who else, — Lady Mandeville, Lord and 
Lady Latham, and every day comes some new English 
nobility. All this shows that "Perfide Albion" is still 
well represented at the baths. 

Now in October, Aix is beginning to put on its au- 
tumnal livery, the grape leaves are turning red, and the 
grapes purple. It is more lovely than words can express, 
as the purple shadows flit over the high needle-shaped 
peaks. The vineyard owners fear that the frequent rains 

162 



SEVERAL SEASONS AT AIX-LES-BAINS 

will injure the wine. We have had much rain lately. 
It is a very important industry here — the wine. 

Meantime I have been amusing myself in gathering 
together certain legends of Savoy. 

We are very fond of making our picnics at the beau- 
tiful chateau of Chatillon, which had the honor of giving 
a pope to the church. Celestin IV was lord of Chatil- 
lon, so this chateau, now on a par with the other cha- 
teaux around the Lake of Bourget, had once the honor, 
in the middle ages, of giving its name to the surrounding 
waters. It was called the Lake of Chatillon. But 
because a chateau owns a pope, is no reason that it 
should not also own a beautiful young lady. So, after 
hearing the story of the pope, one is treated to the legend 
of the lovely Chatelaine. Without referring to classic his- 
tory, it is breathed that she had the power of bringing 
many adorers to her feet. Noble lords sued in vain. 
She loved a humble fisherman of the Rhone. It is not 
an unusual circumstance that a great belle loves the 
least worthy of her adorers, and the worst part of this is 
that the unworthy adorer is often not in love with her. 
The great lovers came frequently to Chatillon, but the 
handsome fisherman only appeared at long intervals. 
She determined to go after him and arouse his insensible 
heart. But how to reach him ! The Lake of Bourget 
was then separated from the Rhone by an impassable 
morass. There were no canals, no steamships, no rail- 
roads in the eleventh century, so how to get to her fish- 
erman of the Rhone was a problem. 

It is said she conceived the idea of making a canal 
through the morass, and that she and her maid cut the 
first passage with her scissors, which sounds improbable. 

163 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

She, however, still has the credit of making the canal of 
Savieres, which now unites the Lac du Bourget and 
the Rhone. It is said that she and her maid impro- 
vised a raft, and made the first voyage through. The 
fisherman was captured by such indomitable energy. 
I dare say he turned out to be a lord in disguise. I 
hope so. 

The father of the enterprising engineer Chatelaine 
forgave her, as the canal became a source of infinite 
profit to him, and he allowed her to marry her love. 

The queen, Marguerite, has this summer gone to Cour- 
meyer, the Chamounix of the Alps, a hot valley shut in 
by the great wall of Mont Blanc, and destitute of any 
charm, even good hotels. At Aix-les-Bains she would 
have had the best hotels in the world, the most beautiful 
views, and also the sight of the ruins of the old Chateau 
de Charbonniere, which was the beginning of the 
house of Savoy, it was the birthplace of a kingly race, 
the house of Victor Emmanuel. The Chateau de Char- 
bonniere, holds a marked place in history, if it no 
longer has a place on the maps. Francis I took this 
chateau in 1536, and razed it to the ground. Emman- 
uel Philiberto repaired and restored it. In 1590, 
Charles Emmanuel became its master. In 1599, it 
fell into the power of Crequy. In 1600, Sully, who 
attacked it, met with a formidable resistance. The 
explosion of a magazine of powder did not even 
bring these brave men to surrender; they refused to 
submit to the rigorous conditions of the besiegers. 
Finally, the women of the garrison, tired of war, 
prayed Sully to retire, but he emulated the virtue 
of Scipio, and refused to see them. Had they heard of 

164 




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SEVERAL SEASONS AT AIX-LES-BAINS 

Henry IV and his amiable chivalry? To be sure they 
had, and they thanked God that a King of France was 
accessible to tears and smiles. Henry IV had no idea of 
emulating Scipio, so, when a weeping train of damsels 
from Charbonniere and from Aiguebelle came out to 
greet him, they proved more dangerous than many can- 
non. The most beautiful of the ambassadors obtained 
an honorable capitulation for the chateau, and here Mar- 
guerite de Savoie would learn that she is not the first, or 
the only, beautiful, courageous woman of her race. 

Savoy is a very religious Catholic country, and the 
legends are mostly connected with some old monastery. 
The famous proverb of the "Bocal de St. Jacques" led 
me to find out a rather improbable, but characteristic 
story. The village of Moutiers owes its name to a 
reconstructed monastery, where dwelt St. Jacques. Gon- 
tran, King of Bourgogne, dying of a terrible disease, was 
miraculously cured by the prayers of this great saint. 
He gave great gifts of land to this monastery. The con- 
vent grew in prosperity and wealth, a city became 
necessary to accommodate the pilgrims who flocked to 
it, and the industries which flourished about it soon 
made the whole country rich. St. Jacques became a 
great cattle-raiser, and a breed still in existence, called 
"le race tarine," flourishes on the hills. But saints have 
enemies as well as other people, and the prelate offended 
the nobles by his success. There does not to-day, aswe 
observe at Rome and in England, always exist harmony 
between church and state. The nobles got the devil 
on their side; he promised to help them, and, as usual, 
proved a very useful ally. He took the form of a bear 
(the woods above Moutiers are full of bears to this day), 

165 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

and, descending on the fine cattle of St. Jacques, he ate 
them up indiscriminately. 

The saint was long in suspecting that the bear was the 
devil himself. He sent men out to kill bears, and he 
poured out many a fine yoke of cattle to replace those 
who were lost, but when they went too, the good saint 
began to suspect something. He watched for the bear 
with a cross in his hand and a yoke handy, and so, one 
morning, finding him asleep, Mr. Bruin was then and 
there yoked to a powerful bull, and over him stood the 
saint with the cross! It was no go, the devil was dis- 
tanced, and finding the yoke intolerable and the bull 
very cross, he yielded to terms. Out of the woods came 
the slaughtered oxen as good as new, and then the 
discomfited Bruin himself went off to the woods, chap- 
fallen. The "race tarine" all have the mark of a 
cross on the back to this day, which is entirely confirm- 
atory. 

It is not astonishing that, in the sight of these snow 
mountains, within a few hours of Mont Blanc, we should 
hear of "Our Lady of the Snow." Many a humble 
wayside shrine is dedicated to "Notre Dame des 
Neiges." 

Strange that it should be connected, in one instance, 
with mines of black lead, yet such is the contradiction 
possible to legendary history. 

The "Isere" is the pretty glacier-fed river which 
flows through Aix, and it comes down from Tarentaise, 
where are mines which have been deemed worthy of 
attention by all the companies of Europe. 

After ruining two or three companies, they became 
the property of the state. The state, however, is never 

166 



SEVERAL SEASONS AT AIX-LES-BAINS 

an enterprising proprietor, and did not trouble the 
mines of Peisey, but Napoleon II happened to hear of 
them, and, with his quick, practical energy, he instituted 
a school for miners. The mines, however, only worked 
for educational purposes, were not profitable, and an 
inundation coming along, they were swept out of sight, 
and the poor inhabitants were forced to leave their native 
soil, and go to other lands. One dear attachment they 
carried with them to their church " Notre Dame des 
Neiges." This chapel of the Virgin is situated very 
much at the top of a mountain near the opening of the 
mine. Young people had a reason for going to the chapel 
Dame des Neiges for she has a particular fancy for 
arranging happy marriages. The young girls in quest 
of husbands, the young men in search of wives, all 
made a pilgrimage to the oratory of the Mother of 
God, to supplicate her intercession for the object of 
their hearts. The population is a very handsome 
one — the young men tall, well formed, and robust; 
the girls very rosy and pretty. The Virgin listens ; they 
get married. One young pair, many years ago married, 
sailed for America — to Wisconsin. The wife dreamed, 
doubtless very homesick, that the Dame des Neiges told 
her to come home and bring her husband, to open again 
the blacklead mines. They came, and they brought 
some money and much practical sense. They are work- 
ing the mines now profitably, or their son is. Some 
descendant of this happy pair will continue to solicit 
the good-will of the virgin. Some one still works the 
blacklead mines with American money and American 
energy. 

Mont Blanc peeped over the shoulder of the Rivard as 

167 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

I looked the other evening at the sky, from a great 
height, and as the majesty of the spectacle moved me 
for the nonce, I was not astonished to hear that the 
peasants all look upon the "massif" of Mont Blanc 
with terror. In vulgar souls, fear always precedes 
admiration. That grandeur which can make us tremble, 
how we admire it ! 

The lower classes people these dreadful solitudes of 
snow with fabulous monsters and fantastic animals, 
with supernatural beings and gods of an inferior order, 
supposed to guard the grottoes full of diamonds, which are 
certainly there when the sun shines. They believe that 
demons open the perfidious crevasses or send the trav- 
eler down the bottomless abyss. Credulity never stops — 
it makes these evil spirits to howl through the storm, to 
descend on the glacier. In the storms which rage they 
hear the vengeance of infernal spirits, incited by the 
celestial anger, sent to punish these poor peasants for 
any lack of faith. Certain years the glaciers come 
down near to the villages and threaten them all with 
ruin. Their poor little gardens disappear. Then they 
apply to the priests, who come as did the bishop of 
Geneva, Jean of Arathon, in the sixteenth century, to 
bless the people kneeling at his feet, then exorcised 
the spirits, and excommunicated the glaciers with most 
formal ritual. It is said that the glaciers, however, had 
the temerity to appear again in that spot. Some witty 
and learned unbeliever has said that "if anybody at 
Geneva has modified the glaciers it is not d' Arathon, but 
Monsieur de Saussure." 

There is another very orthodox legend, which always 
amused me, called "La Prienne de Mattasine. " A 

1 68 



SEVERAL SEASONS AT AIX-LES-BAINS 

priory, a cross, a shrine to the Virgin meets one at 
every turn, and the old Abbey of Hautecombe on the 
Lake Bourget is a dependence of the Grande Chartreuse, 
full of Carmelite monks, whose rule is not, however, as 
strict as are those of the parent house. 

In the little hamlet of Mattasine, the remains of a fine 
old priory are to be seen which has this legend. 
Addore, Abbe of Cluny, was, by a bad fever, stopped at 
the house of a priest at Mattasine. In the height of his 
delirium he saw St. Maurice holding in his hands a 
luminous cross, which Count Am£d£e of Savoy helped 
hirn to place on the hill of St. John, near Mattasine. 
This work completed, the saint touched Addore, who 
was immediately cured. The saint disappeared. The 
next day Addore started for Aix. There he found Count 
Humbert of the White Hands, and his son Amedee, 
the very men whom he had just seen in his dreams. 
They, lords of the country, grateful for this manifesta- 
tion of the will of God, erected the priory on the hill, 
made Addore the abbot, and endowed it well. It must 
be observed here that these mediaeval saints were very 
good judges of real estate, and the priests always got a 
very sunny exposure, in a fine situation, where fruit and 
corn would grow. They trusted in God and kept their 
powder dry, these early bishops. If you see the most 
charming of all situations with a convent in its midst, 
you may be sure that some monarch, with an uneasy 
conscience, gave it to some intelligent bishop who 
was not so unworldly as was Bruno of La Grande Char- 
treuse. 

Then these learned fathers were not slow to turn to 
account the wonders of Nature. The words balme, 

169 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

banme, baime, signifying a grotto, an excavation, a 
fissure through the rocks, occur everywhere in the sul- 
phurous region about Aix. There are many of these 
natural grottoes, extremely curious, near that town — one 
is called "La Balme a Colomb." The entrance to it is 
marked by a pillar on which are rudely carved the arms 
of Dauphiny. Here is the boundary of Savoy. To pen- 
etrate the Balme a Colomb is as dangerous and dreary as 
to go behind Niagara. Not alone does one feel a sensa- 
tion of real cold, but the imagination is chilled ; it is a 
labyrinth, dark, mysterious and dangerous, and as one 
proceeds the most lamentable groans and shrieks are 
heard. It seems that a wretch named Colomb tried to 
penetrate, to find hidden treasure, but as he advanced 
without making the sign of the cross, he was led on until 
he could not get out, and so he groans there still. His 
frightful cries are still farther increased by the echoes of 
the cavern. He has now groaned for eleven centuries, 
and if he is not worn out by this time, he probably never 
will be. The naturalists try to make us believe that 
imprisoned water is making all these noises, but we, 
with imagination, adhere to Colomb. 

The sulphur water which cures our rheumatism at 
Aix thus fulfills another mission and tells us to remem- 
ber our religion. As it is one of the greatest gambling 
spots of Europe, it is as well that we should be warned 
against seeking for hidden treasure, for the Devil's Pic- 
ture Books are notoriously seductive, with their treasure 
behind them. There are too many Colombs about Aix, 
who are apt to groan and shriek aloud about four in the 
morning, and long after — an unsuccessful game. There 
is a lovely old church, as venerable as the face of St. 

170 



SEVERAL SEASONS AT AIX-LES-BAINS 

Jerome, near Aix, where was once the " Saint Suaise," 
or Holy Napkin. Marguerite of Austria placed it in 
a beautiful box of gold with precious stones, and gave it 
to the Cathedral of St. Francis d'Assisi. This church 
was burned in 15 and something. The box of gold and 
jewels disappeared (naturally), but the holy napkin 
remained ; being a relic, it was miraculously preserved. 
Carlo Borromeo started on foot from Isola Bella to see 
it, during the plague. But the Duke of Savoy met the 
prelate half way and took the napkin to Turin with him. 
There it has remained ever since, to the great disgust 
of the pious Savoyards, who have made every effort to 
get their relic back. 

But one can see the place where it was. 

These legends delighted me. I was never tired of 
going to see the spots which had given birth to so much 
simple, beautiful credulity and poetic absurdity. It 
was like that early, childish dawn of Faith, unhappily 
so much rubbed out. 

"The Faith which round a Legend glows 
Is like the fragrance of a rose; 
It blesses every passerby ; 
One asks not whence, one knows not why." 

The priory, the cross, the shrine to the Virgin by the 
wayside, all, all are most interesting. "Savoie! c est la 
grace alpestre" said Victor Hugo, and she is indeed the 
naiad, the dryad of the mountains, this beautiful coun- 
try, with one hand on the pines of Switzerland, and with 
the other gathering the grapes of Italy; she has the 
charms of both. 

And her piety is sincere. Although only two hours 
from Geneva, the old Catholics were never touched by 

171 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

the breath of Calvin. They held out stoutly against 
Martin Luther and all his works, if, indeed, they ever 
heard of him. Their piety is like their farming — they 
carry it on with all the old tools. The plough is a pri- 
meval one, and there is neither a reaping nor a mowing 
machine in Savoy. They drive their farm horse with a 
ragged rope, and are content with a fire shovel for a 
hoe. The name of McCormick is not known in the land. 
I once saw a woman and a cow ploughing a field 
together. No patent ploughs, no mowing machines, no 
reapers. Yet it is the garden spot of the universe. Its 
vineyards yield an admirable increase. Their strawberry 
beds produce four crops a year. Figs hang heavily on 
their trees, and the mulberry and peach each hold up a 
vine. The husbandry is the perfection of neatness, and 
the flowers blossom everywhere. Is it the smile of the 
Virgin? 



172 



Lord Houghton and d'Aumale 

My friend, the sister of Lord Houghton, Harriette, 
Lady Galway, is thus described by Carlyle in a letter 
dated in April, 1841, written while the author was on a 
visit to Fryston, Lord Houghton's residence in Yorkshire : 

" Besides these waifs and strays, we have had, and are likely to 
have, certain Yorkshire cousins, male and female, from the Northern 
Dales, rosy-faced persons, who do thee neither ill nor good. Richard's 
sister is also here these two days until to-morrow. They call her 
Harriette and Ladyship. 'Will Ladyship have fowl?' etc., and he 
seems to have made a pet of her from the beginning. Even this has 
not entirely spoiled her. I think she is decidedly worth something. 
I think she must be something taller than Richard; the same face as 
his, but translated into the female cut, and surrounded with lace and 
braided hair, of a satirical, witty turn, not wanting affability, but 
rather wanting art of speech; above all, rather afraid of me. She 
plays, sings, reads German, Italian, to great lengths, looks really 
beautiful, but somewhat moony, with her great, blue eyes, and I do 
believe there is more in her that we yet see. Her husband, who is 
her cousin, the Viscount, is a furious, everlasting hunter of foxes. I 
mean furious on the foxes — good to all other things and men. They 
live in Nottinghamshire, some thirty miles off, and Richard will take 
me down there." 

Thus did the author of c< Sartor Resartus" mention 
the lady whom I was to know well forty-five years later. 
I met Lady Galway in Rome in 1885, in Lord Hough- 
ton's company at the Hotel di Londra. He and she 
were both very old people, but as lively and amusing as 
they could have been at twenty-five. I asked Lord 

i73 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

Houghton to dine with me, to meet Mr. and Mrs. Story, 
Dr. and Mme. Brachet, of Aix-les-Bains, Mr. and Mrs. 
George Betts, of New York, the author T. Adolphus 
Trollope, the sculptor Franklin Simmons, the painter 
Terry, Count and Countess Gianotti, some American 
Princesses, and altogether a goodly company. 

"And Lady Galway?" said he, as he immediately 
accepted. "Oh!" said I, "I do not dare; I do not 
know her. She is a great English lady, and I am afraid 
of her." "She'll come," said he. So I sent up my 
card and a carefully worded, rather apologetic invitation, 
which was most immediately accepted, and followed by 
the advent of a tall, slender, rather loud-speaking lady 
who was cordiality itself, and as funny and witty (two 
different things) as she could be. She spoke Italian like 
a native, I found out afterward. 

The dinner was a decided success. The Hotel di 
Londra had a great artist as cook, and I dressed the long 
table with Roman wild flowers which I bought on the 
Campagna. The effect was novel and much admired. 
The cosmopolitan quality of the company made a most 
agreeable dinner. Mr. Story and Lord Houghton talked 
delightfully. I wrote some verses to put at each plate, 
with an attempted characterization of each person, which 
amused them and started the talk. But I had great 
difficulty in composing a verse for Lady Galway, whom 
I did not know at all. However, one distinguished guest 
of the dinner whom I have not mentioned helped me 
out. This was Mrs. Wynne Finch, the mother of Mrs. 
Laurence Oliphant, herself a most clever and lady-like 
woman, full of experiences of all countries, and already 
a friend of mine. 

174 



LORD HOUGHTON AND D'AUMALE 

She called late in the afternoon as I was finishing my 
dinner cards, and I said, "What is Lady Galway's 
specialty?" "Love of her brother, oddity, frankness, 
truth, and remembrance that Carlyle admired her," 
said the ready Mrs. Wynne Finch. I do not know- 
how I managed to put all this into a dinner card, but 
somehow I did, and it pleased her. We were friends 
from that moment. 

She and Lord Houghton wanted a list of everybody's 
"day, " that is, of all the entertainers, and came to me, 
as I was in the hotel and going out a great deal, for the 
American dates. I think they were infinitely pleased 
with our American Princess Vicovara, who was then giv- 
ing some receptions. She was Miss Spencer, of New 
York, a charming and elegant person, and there 
were others whom they liked. In everything I did for 
them they did ten times as much for me. Of course 
they could. Lady Galway had come to Rome as a girl 
and went to her first ball in the very apartment of the 
Barberini Palace where Mr. and Mrs. Story lived, and 
she told with infinite gusto the story of the late Lady 
Holland, who thought she was pursued by a bravo 
through the ballroom, and who tumbled down a steep 
stair into the arms of "the handsomest man in Rome," 
in the early thirties. A story lost nothing by coming 
through Lady Galway's lips. As every room in Rome 
reminded her of something, and as she knew everybody 
she was a most charming cicerone to the old Italian 
houses which I should never have entered but for her. 

The union between the brother and sister was very 
beautiful, and none the less so that they quarreled good- 
naturedly all the time. Lady Galway had the most 

i75 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

unbounded admiration for her brother's talents, and gave 
me anecdotes of him all along from their youth through 
his very remarkable manhood, so that I could almost 
have written a life of Richard Moncton Milnes, if Mr. T. 
Wemyss Reid had not done it so much better. They 
both honored me with their letters ever after; hers I 
could read, but Lord Houghton's I could not — such a 
handwriting had never been before given to a man with 
which to conceal his ideas, excepting that of our dear 
Bishop of Albany, the Right Rev. William Croswell 
Doane, who, with Lord Houghton, always brings the 
magnifying glass and a professional decipherer of 
hieroglyphics into immediate use. The matter be- 
hind the hieroglyphics, deserved a Rosetta stone, in both 
cases. 

In reading Lord Houghton's life, one learns fortu- 
nately how much he had to do politically and personally 
with the family of Louis Philippe, and one is not as- 
tonished to see that in 1861 the Due d'Aumale and his 
young nephew, the Due de Chartres, were guests of 
Lord Houghton at Fryston. Our own Minister, Mr. 
Adams, was there a few months later, and there received 
the news that Mason and Slidell had been taken off an 
English mail steamer by a United States man-of-war. 
Of this incident Lord Houghton made me once a full 
account in his most graphic language, and paid a deserved 
tribute to Mr. Adams's coolness. 

In 1869 my first visit to England occurred, and, hav- 
ing letters to Lord Houghton, from Charles Astor 
Bristed, my husband and myself were asked to more 
than one of the historical breakfasts in Brook Street, 
and in October, 1875, we gave Lord Houghton a recep^ 

176 



LORD HOUGHTON AND D'AUMALE 

tion and greeting in New York on his first visit to 
America. 

After that I was honored by his correspondence up 
to the time of his lamented death. But I must not 
attempt to speak of him in this paper, as it would lead 
to a long memoir. 

I only wish to account for my place in that full cup, 
the friendship of these two very distinguished persons, 
Lord Houghton and Lady Galway, and why I received 
from her, after his death, such favors and honors in Lon- 
don, where she was a social power. Lord Houghton 
died in 1885, and I sent to Lady Galway all the Ameri- 
can papers which I could collect, filled, as they were y 
with eulogies of him who was our faithful friend and 
most consistent defender in Parliament during the war. 
Her letters to me at this time go far fully to realize 
Carlyle's definition of her — that she was "decidedly 
worth something. ' ' She was worth a very great deal, a 
noble woman. When I went to London in the jubilee 
year I did not expect to see my old, dear friend, but I 
drove to her house, in Rutland Gardens, to inquire for 
her the very day I landed. She sent for me to come 
up, and I found her very cheerful, and, of course, about 
to give a dinner party. Neither she nor Lord Hough- 
ton could live without entertaining. 

"Now," said she, "that I think of it, I have a seat 
for you. Lady So and So has gone to Homburg, and 
you shall have her seat. You will meet the Due 
d'Aumale. No, do n't start so; he is only an ordinary 
old, gouty gentleman, very nice." 

"But," said I, "the man who has given Chantilly to 
France— the Athenian of Paris? I have just seen his 

177 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

superb palace. I have sat in his box at the Comedie. I 
knew his nephews and his brother in America! You 
do n't mean to say you will invite me to see him!" 

''Yes, if your boxes are come. Now, what will you 
wear?" 

I laughed at this. It was so extremely characteristic, 
for her mind jumped at small things as well as great, 
and she took care of her friends. 

■ 'My boxes have arrived, and I have a Worth dress of 
white silk, trimmed with Chantilly lace." 

" Black over white," said she, reflectively, "that will 
do. But do not, like your countrywomen generally, 
wear too many diamonds, or too large stones." 

"Oh, make yourself easy on that score," I said. "I 
have no large stones. But why do you score my coun- 
trywomen thus? They do not wear one-half the big 
stones that you Englishwomen do, and I saw you at the 
Queen's ball in Rome with a diamond plume in your 
hair; do you remember?" 

"Yes," she said, mollified. "The Galway diamonds 
are good ; but no display to-night. This is a quiet din- 
ner — with a few friends afterward. Be punctual." 

So I was there and met a most distinguished company 
in her rather small dining-room, for which the table was 
made most wonderfully narrow, so one could talk 
across. 

After dinner she contrived that I should have a few 
words with the guest of honor. His poor, gouty feet 
in convenient shoes impelled him to shorten the courtly 
attention of standing, and, to my relief and his, we 
both sat down. He asked me much about the Count de 
Paris and the Due de Chartres in America; and I told 

178 



LORD HOUGHTON AND D'AUMALE 

him that no incident in history had been so romantic 
and so beautiful as that visit, nor any words of the 
Chevalier Bayard more eloquent than those of the Prince 
de Joinville, as he asked permission to introduce them 
on General McClellan's staff — his two nephews. "Ah!" 
said he, "Joinville is my favorite brother!" He looked 
pleased. 

Lady Galway had told him that I had written some- 
thing about Chantilly and he asked to see it. So I sent 
him the following sketch next day, getting back a note, 
eloquent and tasteful, signed "Aumale." 

" I was in Paris when the Due d'Aumale gave back Chantilly to 
France, after which his sentence of banishment closed. Chantilly is 
about forty kilometers north of Paris, near vast forests, such as the 
sense of Europeans preserves, instead of cutting down. From the 
little station, Senlis, I think, we took a carriage and drove to the 
chateau, entered by the connetable, or great gate, before which stands 
the statue of Anne de Montmorency. It is an immense feudal build- 
ing, with towers, angles, facades, chapels, picture galleries, a fosse, a 
wall, all reproduced from the original designs of the last Conde, for 
the original chateau was completely destroyed under the Terror, 
robbed and despoiled. It was said that among its treasures was the 
original armor of Joan of Arc. But this is uncertain. We only know 
that the statue of the connetable was broken by the mob, as was that 
of Henry IV and Louis XIII. This great connetable, Anne de Mont- 
morency, the founder of the family, was born here in 1493. He was 
the last of the Soldiers of Fortune, and the first of the great Seigneurs 
of France. He passed his youth in a dungeon, and came out of the 
wars in 1538 covered with scars, swearing like a trooper. Rich and 
generous and magnificent, he determined to transform this old fortress 
in its triangular rock into a sumptuous habitation. The day of the 
feudal lords was ended, intestine wars had stopped for a moment, 
but still a man had to carry his life in his hand. Even then he was 
quite able to take care of his. Charles VIII, Louis XII, Francis I, 
had led the French army into Italy; French soldiers began to admire 
Italian art, and wonder at the glories of the Renaissance. The con- 
netable's grandson was a man of taste. 

" He was a rude soldier, but he was superb and magnificent. He 

179 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

had taste— he has left us a proof of it. And it was this grandson who 
made the first Chantilly. 

"He got Jean Bullant, who was one of the first architects of the 
Tuileries, who built for Catherine de Medicis,to build for him a beau- 
tiful little house called La Chatelet. He pierced the gigantic rock of 
Chantilly for fortifications. He had his soldiers there. It was half 
palace, half fortress. His taste for the arts made him called the 
first amateur of France.' From his son, who was beheaded in 1632, 
the house, confiscated, passed to the Prince of Conde, who was Henri 
de Bourbon. It never went out of their hands, these victorious 
Condes. 

"The great Conde, the hero of Rocroy, the friend of Louis XIV, 
led off in the sumptuosity of building which preceded the follies of 
Versailles. It was here in his day that Vatel killed himself because 
the fish did not arrive in time for dinner. Then came colossal ban- 
quets and gigantic receptions. It never was a private residence after 
that day. It was a royal residence in which to receive the king. 
The great Conde himself, however, prefered to live at La Chatelet. 
The gardens, the alleys, the statues, the fountains were as grand, 
perhaps more so, than they are to-day. His friends were Boileau, 
Racine, Bossuet. The last pronounced his funeral oration, saying: 
' We see here the great Conde as at the head of his armies, without 
ostentation, without noise; always great in repose as in action. We 
see him entertaining his friends in these alleys, and listening to the 
music of fountains, which never cease day or night to bring their 
liquid notes to the ear.' This great man died in 1686. Then follows 
the long story of the descendants until we come to the name of the 
Due d'Enghein, whose murder was the fatal error of Napoleon. 

"The last Conde was Joseph de Bourbon, who as exile, emigre, 
returned to France in 1818. The story of his death, with its sinister, 
suspicious surroundings, is too familiar for us to tell here. He was 
found hanging, dead, to a window blind. In his will, dated August 
31, 1829, he left all this great estate, valued at ^5,000,000, to his grand- 
nephew, Henri Eugene Philippe Louis d'Orleans, Due d'Aumale. 

"The chateau was a ruin, but the young Prince, serving in Africa 
in 1843, at tne timQ °f ms inheritance determined to rebuild it. How 
nobly he has succeeded the visitor of to-day who visits the Cour 
d'Honneur, the Galerie des Cerfs, the Chapelle, the Galerie de Pein- 
teurs, the Galerie de Psyche, the noble library, the splendid salons, 
the gorgeous ballroom and theater, the Tour du Tresor, the Cabinet 
des Etampes, and the Tribune, where is hung the famous Raphael 

180 



LORD HOUGHTON AND D'AUMALE 

secured from England at a fabulous price; his Boticelli, an immense 
favorite of his; his Fra Lippo Lippis, his exquisite Italian pictures; 
the Delesserts and Bouguereaus and Davids, and the later masters 
testify that all the spirit of the world's great painters is there. The 
stained glass of the Chateau of Ecuoun, chef d'oeuvre of the art, ad- 
mirable wood carving, the fine masterpiece of Jean Bullant, the bas- 
reliefs of Jean Gousson saved from the destruction of the Terror; 
statues, altars, tapestries, enamels, bronzes, famous tombs, violated 
under the Terror, were found by the Due d'Aumale and restored at 
immense pains — all are there. 

" For forty years one of the richest men in the world, a widower 
and childless, worked to this one end to restore Chantilly, to bring 
thither the treasures of the Chateau d'Ecuoun one of the most beau- 
tiful remains of the art of France, at its best, to make a building a 
memorial to the great Conde, and also to his two lovely young Princes, 
his sons, who died in the flower of their youth, the Prince of Conde 
and the Due de Guise; that has been the not ignoble use to which 
this learned son of Louis Philippe, this 'Athenian of Paris,' has put 
his life, and to which he consecrated his mind and consecrated his 
ruined hopes. 

" He had, besides, the immense revenues of Chantilly, a large for- 
tune from his wife, who was a Sicilian Princess, and in the sale of 
those vineyards and wines he drew from it, it is said, one-third of the 
revenue of Sicily. He has given it all to France — the noble park, 
fifty miles in diameter, filled with deer (the shooting alone is worth 
very much), and all its other industries and products — to the country 
which exiled him. As he says: ' It will be a museum of the arts, the 
antiquities, and the industries of France.' He felt the death of his 
sons most keenly. The family affections are strong in his race. He 
is said to have uttered the famous phrase, ' God takes from us our 
first born as a judgment for our sins,' when his noble brother, the 
Due d'Orleans, was killed, and again when he looked at his own dead 
boys — a phrase for which his more prudent father, Louis Philippe, 
had once reproached him. 

" The Due d'Aumale was much beloved at Chantilly, where he 
led the grand life of a French seigneur of the Moyen Age, without its 
crimes and mistakes. 

" The chapel is of the Moyen Age, and bears the marks of that 
grand artist of elegance, Jean Goupin. The stained glass is from the 
Chateau d'Ecuoun, the very best specimen of that art in France. 
Nothing more noble than its entrance can be imagined. Here are 

181 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

the tombs of the Condes, found and saved after the Terror, orna- 
mented with statues of bronze, made by Pierre Surrozin. The chapel 
is a museum of French art, and all the names of those of French 
artists of the finest epochs, of their respective work. The immense 
stables are built to accommodate 200 horses in princely state. They 
took sixteen years to build, from 1719 to 1735, and they remain useless 
now, and will be more useless hereafter, when electricity will carry us 
everywhere. 

"How can I describe that little sanctuary of art, 'Le Tour du 
Tresor,' filled with little delicate objects, antique bronzes, miniatures, 
marbles, gems, bitong, snuff boxes — all kept under glass — refinement, 
beauty, luxury, and magnificence. 

"Chantilly is the work of a scholar who had a purpose, a love of 
art, a lover of bibelots; who was also a Prince and a multi-millionaire. 
The Athenian of Paris has conserved for France what she would 
never have saved for herself." 

The Due d'Aumale died in 1897, just after the 
horrible holocaust in Paris, which lost him his favorite 
niece. He was one of the most distinguished and agree- 
able men of his day — one of the many choice specimens 
of our race, whose acquaintance I owed to my dear 
friend, Lady Galway. 



182 



Matlock Baths and Neighborhoods 

The joy of Matlock is its neighborhood. We are 
only a driving distance from Chatsworth, Haddon Hall, 
Eyam (the home of Anna Seward, the poetess), Dove- 
dale (celebrated by poets for its beauty, and the beloved 
haunt of Izaak Walton). Indeed a little inn is named 
for the "Father of Angling," from which one wanders, 
on the margin of the river, past banks covered with ash, 
hazel, birch, drooping willow, wild honeysuckle, wild 
roses and brambles, ferns and hawthorn. 

Byron says of Derbyshire : ' ' There are things there 
as noble as in Greece or Switzerland ;" and it is true. 
There also is a hotel, called "Peveril of the Peak." We 
were in the scenery which Scott has endeared to us in 
that famous romance, and we pass "Pike Pool" where 
11 young Mr. Izaak Walton used to fish." 

Dr. Johnson, when he wrote "Rasselas, " is said to 
have had the neighborhood of Ham in view as the pat- 
tern of his "Happy Valley." Ham Hall is close to 
Dovedale. Congreve wrote his "The Old Bachelor" and 
''The Mourning Bride" near to Ham. 

And we shall drive hence to Haddon Hall, over the 
clear waters of the River Wye, "amid rich pastures, 
shady nooks, and sedgy banks." 

Some one said "you come to London to realize your 
Dickens." We have come to Derbyshire to realize our 

183 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

Sir John Suckling, our Drummond of Hawthornden, 
our Herrick, and our Shakespeare. " Daisies pied and 
violets blue" pave the turf; and shall we not go to 
Hardwick Hall, the seat of Bess of Hardwick, the jailer 
of Mary Queen of Scots and the founder of Chatsworth? 
They have a statue of the poor Queen there now, where 
she was imprisoned for eight years. One would think it 
would "walk o* nights." There, too, is her bed furni- 
ture, embroidered by her own poor lovely hands. 

And thence we go to Hathersage, where Little John 
and bold Robin Hood lived. Here we enter Sherwood 
Forest, and shall try to people it with "men in green" 
— very interesting to me, for I have the same coat of 
arms as had Robin Hood. 

It is said that in Hathersage Church the remains of a 
gigantic man, possibly Little John, was found as late as 
1728, and that "little" John's cap hung there within 
memory of the oldest inhabitant. 

We hope to see Chatsworth to advantage, and to 
stop at the lovely little inn at Edensor, in the Park; 
also to travel thence to Newstead Abbey, if one week 
will only be long enough. Everything is so enchanting, 
however, that we are like the "petrified ladies" so often 
painted and sculptured ; we like to stand still and look, 
to listen to the nightingales and linnets "forever and 
forever. 

This is the way to see England : to come and stay 
two or three months. These wooded heights, crowned 
by an ancient ruin, an old castle, or a homely English 
farmhouse, — these are the delights of a Spring in Eng- 
land. 

We came through lovely scenes of English beauty to 

184 



MATLOCK BATHS 

Matlock Baths, a spot eminent for its scenery. Here 
was built the first cotton mill in England ; here still live 
the Arkwrights, true descendents of the Sir Richard 
who invented the spinning jenny. The Derwent, a 
beautiful stream, runs through the valley, and precipi- 
tous mountains, called Tors, rise on either side. Here is 
the famous Derbyshire spar, the petrifying springs, the 
caves, and the tufa rock so useful in aquaria. To see it 
now, with every pink and white hawthorn in its freshest 
beauty, with lilacs growing out of rocks in the steepest 
hillsides, and the very gravel walk full of little wild flow- 
ers, is to see Proserpine re-visiting the earth. 

I should say Derbyshire was the stone quarry of the 
universe, had I not been born in New Hampshire. Every 
little town is engaged in the gritty work of getting out that 
peculiar and beautiful sandstone which crops out in those 
hills. The quartz and the "Blue John" and the Derby- 
shire spar which is found in the caves and mines is, of 
course, a smaller but a very productive industry, for no 
one has the moral courage to come away without buy- 
ing some jewelry, if only a pair of sleeve buttons. We 
went to one stone village called Middlebury, where the 
stone pavements, stone houses, and stony-looking miners 
all looked as if they had been formed in the tertiary 
period of the earth's construction, and it was a singular 
contrast to the beauty of the neighboring flowery dales. 

We drove up one valley which was a procession of 
wild flowers. The blue forget-me-nots grow in greatest 
profusion, the lily of the valley covers acres, and the 
purple hyacinth looks as if a Roman emperor had walked 
that way, leaving his imperial mantles, with true Roman 
magnificence, on the ground as he passed. The yellow 

185 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

tulips and pink pimpernels were most exquisite. I be- 
lieve I have said all of this before. 

We saw an old Derbyshire custom at two towns, 
Wirksworth and Tissington — that of ''Dressing the 
Wells." It seems that in old times — say fifteen hundred 
and something — the drought was fearful, and all wells 
dried up except in these two towns, so the pious inhabit- 
ants have ever since, on Whitsuntide, "dressed" these 
wells with flowers. It is a beautiful idea, full of that old 
touching poetry which founded the Tichborne dole, and 
the memorial wells, and the crosses at the wayside, and 
so on, now gone from our prosaic age. It might have 
been better done. We expected garlands of flowers and 
singing maidens — in short, Tennyson's "Maud" every- 
where ; but we saw only clay boarded up, with hideous 
floral designs put in, and mottoes very elaborately con- 
structed out of slaughtered buttercups and daisies, which 
had been torn to pieces to suckle the dreadful clay com- 
position. Women with dirty babies presented teacups 
for our pence, and we had to pay — pay — pay. 

At Tissington it was prettier. There they had a reli- 
gious service, and the chimes were rung, and the rector 
went about with the people blessing the wells, now, 
however, represented by a tap in the wall. It is the 
"living water," however, so sacred in poetry and legend 
and serving for such a vital parable in the Scriptures. 

I wonder if any of your readers remember Miss Mar- 
tineau's lovely story, "The Anglers of the Dove." I 
remember it from my Sunday-school days, when it was 
the prize book. It seemed very far off then. But 
when I was on the spot, and Dovedale and the Izaak 

186 



xMATLOCK BATHS 

Walton Inn and the "Peveril of the Peak" Inn were 
within a morning drive, and the beautiful wild scenery of 
the Dove recalled all those early memories, I was glad 
that I had read it. It was full of the proposed rescue 
of Mary Queen of Scots from Hardwick Hall. We 
spent a quiet hour looking at the ivy-clad wall and dia- 
mond crescents of Haddon Hall, where Dorothy Ver- 
non's shade haunts the peacock walk, and we won- 
dered how the noble family of Rutland could leave this 
sweetest and most picturesque "Pleasance" to the owls 
and the ravens. It is a thousand times more interesting 
than Chatsworth. To me, however, the park at Chats- 
worth and a delightful inn at Edensor, in the park, 
where I recommend every American to go and spend six 
weeks, is not to be despised. This is patronizing to the 
Duke of Devonshire! In fact the landscape gardening 
at Chatsworth at Sir Joseph Paxton's place, at Sir Rich- 
ard Arkwright's, and at Sir Joseph Whit worth's, all 
within a morning's drive, is most wonderful. Our 
American rhododendron and what they call the Ameri- 
can yellow azalea, although I have never seen it in 
America, are splendidly beautiful in groups. 

I drove to look at the outside of Florence Nightin- 
gale's home, Lea Croft, a picturesque and pretty home, 
with an avenue of rhododendrons five miles long. 

Derbyshire is the home of the successful artisans of 
Manchester and Birmingham and Wolverhampton and 
Sheffield. The operatives, out on their Whitsuntide holi- 
day, filled the green hillsides and the woods, and form- 
erly enjoyed the perpetual hospitality of Chatsworth, 
which princely possession is now shut to these hard- 
handed sons and daughters of toil. 

187 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

We came to London after a profuse rainfall, perhaps 
brought down by the prayers of the well-dressers. They 
are very superstitious about it, and this rain was cer- 
tainly very much needed, for all England is suffering 
from a drought, and the " Anglers of the Dove" com- 
plained bitterly that the fish would not bite. We found 
cold and dreary weather, the first we have seen since we 
have been in England. But London, with its thousand 
attractions, makes us superior to the weather, which 
however, is again warm and fine. We returned to 
London on June ioth. 

The Temple Church opened its time-honored doors 
for me on Trinity Sunday, and I walked by Robert de 
Ross and the Earl of Pembroke and other recumbent 
figures in dark marble of knights in full armor, lying 
there with their legs crossed under their shields. We 
entered, with much emotion, the fine handsome Norman 
interior, looking upward to the rich arabesques of the 
ceiling through quadrangular clustered pillars. The 
Agnus Dei, the emblem of humility chosen by the 
proudest soldiers of the cross that ever fought the paynim 
and the pagan, is everywhere, "and fills the soul with 
beauty." This heraldic emblem of the Templars is a 
perfect thing in its way as an order, an ornament, an 
architectural addition, or an emblazonment for a stained- 
glass window. Music and the psalms would have been 
enough, with memory, for a morning service, but we had 
a sermon from Dr. Vaughn, one of the great preachers 
of England, whom I did not think so great a preacher 
as Phillips Brooks — no, nor half so great. But compar- 
isons are odious ; and it is enough honor and glory to be 
allowed to pray in the historical church of the Templars. 

j88 



MATLOCK BATHS 

I saw many Americans in the congregation, and as I 
was coming out, thinking of Baldwin, King of Jerusa- 
lem, and of the Holy Sepulchre and the "poor soldiers 
of the Temple of Solomon," some one said in my ear: 
"You know Mr. Blaine has received the Republican 
nomination for President?" This brought me back 
to the nineteenth century, and I thought how busy 
you had all been at home, thinking of far different 
knights than those who are lying there in bronze, who, 
in their silent way, had led me back to the twelfth and 
thirteenth centuries. 

I sent to the dignitary of another church, with a re- 
quest for seats, the letter of a dignitary of our church, 
and received them with the polite announcement that 
"It was usual to send a stamped order, for the return of 
the note and seats!" What an incomprehensible mean- 
ness, to the American mind! Who in our vast land 
would have said that to a lady ignorant of the custom? 
Would Bishop Potter of New York have grudged the 
penny stamp, and have mentioned the fact? I shall 
preserve that autograph. It is an English peculiarity 
to be saving, but "this exceedeth them all." Of course, 
as the reverend gentleman had never seen or heard of his 
applicant it was of no consequence to her; but it seems 
like an insult to the person who wrote the letter of intro- 
duction. 



189 



Memories of Holland House 

I find in an old journal of 1884 an account of my first 
visit to Holland House. The visit was so often repeated, 
and I became so learned on the subject, that I find it 
difficult to condense the story. I will try, however, to 
make it as brief and pick out the plums only, of which, 
however, the cake is very full. 

Yesterday I had the supreme pleasure of going over 
Holland House. The park I had seen, but the house is 
not often shown. With the best of all possible guides, 
Mr. McHenry, whose passion it is, and who has eleven 
folio volumes filled with illustrations of the history of 
Holland House, rare prints and documents, autographs 
of fabulous value, and other interesting matter, we went 
slowly through, as he told us the history of each room 
and of all the pictures. As every Lady Holland has a 
history, and as every Lord Holland was a collector, the 
stories would fill an encyclopaedia and the gems of art a 
museum. Presuming that nearly every one has read the 
Princess Lichtenstein's book on Holland House — if not, 
they should do so ; that every one has read the story of 
Fox and Pitt, and can quote the best anecdotes about 
Charles James Fox; and also that every one has read 
the Greville "Memoirs," I will not allow "my pen to 
be caught in the tissues of a threadbare scheme." But 

190 



MEMORIES OF HOLLAND HOUSE 

every one has not seen Holland House on a fine June 
day, at leisure, with such a cicerone, and I may be for- 
given if I give a word to the old carved staircase; the 
unexpected vision from the windows of a Dutch garden 
laid out in patterns like a bedquilt, with boxwood out- 
lines; the splendid majesty of the trees, which look in 
at every casement ; to the long library where Addison 
paced between the bottle of sherry and the bottle of 
brandy; to the grand suite of apartments arranged for 
the honeymoon of Charles I and Henrietta Maria; to 
the rich Sir Joshua Reynolds's room, where we see the 
famous picture of young Charles James Fox offering his 
tragedy of "Jane Shore" to his two handsome sisters, 
and his more beautiful aunt, Lady Sarah, made hay on 
the lawn to attract George III, but afterwards married 
Sir Charles Bunbury, ran away with her cousin Churchill 
— they all ran away perpetually in this family — and after- 
ward married Lord Napier and became the mother of 
the famous Napiers. 

One of the most interesting pictures is that of Charles 
James Fox himself, and near it hangs the receipt of 
"Joshua Reynolds" for one hundred guineas, which 
Fox paid for the picture — it is worth a thousand guineas 
to-day. We saw the picture of the stern Lady Holland 
whom Addison married. "She will lead you a devil of 
a life, your Countess," said Steele. Addison found that 
Holland House could not hold three guests, of whom one 
was Peace, and she fulfilled the prophecy. We saw 
the picture of the questionable Lady Vassall Holland, 
who used to snub Macaulay. She was a lamb-like lady, 
with a lamb in her lap, when she was painted at twenty, 
before she ran away from Sir Godfrey Webster. We 

191 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

saw twenty pictures of the present Lady Holland, a 
descendant of one of the beautiful Gunnings painted by 
Watts (Ellen Terry's first husband), and we saw models 
of her beautiful feet. The collections of china, clocks, 
bric-a-brac, and rare old pictures, which are unique in the 
kingdom. Holland House is now the property of Lord 
Ilchester (it was Crown property before Cromwell's 
time), who has promised to preserve this wonderfully 
beautiful old house and its priceless treasures as long as 
he lives, and longer if he can. 

One original picture by Hogarth, of a play presented 
at Holland House by the children of George III, hangs 
in the grand salon, which looks out on the Dutch garden. 
Autographs of Hogarth and his receipts for payment of 
pictures are there also. The dressing-room of the pres- 
ent Lady Holland is full of memorials of Bonaparte at 
St. Helena, and of Louis Philippe and family, who 
spent six months at Holland House. But the Council 
Room, where hang the portraits of Sir Samuel Romilly, 
Talleyrand, Lord Archie Campbell, Lord Edward Fitz- 
Gerald, the Princess Lieven, Sir Walter Scott, Lord 
Byron, and many of England's great judges, statesmen, 
and thinkers, was most impressive. A great canopy of 
thought seems to tapestry the walls, and one can hardly 
speak for fear of driving away the ghost of a majestic 
idea. There are two private libraries, besides the grand 
library where Addison walked. On the shelves rest the 
books which the truly cultivated third Lord Holland, 
Henry, the best of the lot, collected for his own pleas- 
ure. Of course we saw nothing but the bindings 
of old Russia leather, but we felt more cultivated and 
well-read, even from being an hour in their illustrious 

192 



MEMORIES OF HOLLAND HOUSE 

companionship. From this we went to a magnificent 
salon. 

The house is a great, beautiful Tudor Gothic edifice, 
containing some seventy rooms, almost all of immense 
size. The grand dining-room, with carved wood ceiling 
is very dreary, but the private dining-room is quite cozy 
and luxurious. No language could do any sort of jus- 
tice to the delights of the park, as it stretches away in 
every direction, filled with large trees, and carpeted 
with velvet turf. That park is simply the most beauti- 
ful in England, and, one may say, in the world. The 
views from the windows are supremely lovely. 

After this was all over, we drove back to Mr. Mc- 
Henry's pleasant home, Oak Lodge, to look at his auto- 
graphs. He had a remarkable collection of the letters 
of Mrs. Richard Brinsley Sheridan, who was the Miss 
Linley of concert-singing fame, the mother of "Tom" 
and the grandmother of Mrs. Norton, Lady Dufferin, 
and Lady Seymour. They are written in the free and 
easy style of the day. He had also many autograph 
letters of Sheridan and the first playbills of "The 
School for Scandal." In telling how he became the 
possessor of these invaluable things, he said it was a 
romantic story. In 1809 Drury Lane Theatre was 
burned to the ground, and the possessions of Sheridan 
contained in a certain desk were supposed to have been 
destroyed. They were, however, hurriedly put into a 
bag, and carried off to a garret, where they lay sixty-nine 
years, no one knowing anything about them. Mr. Mc- 
Henry's agents, looking for old prints and letters for 
him to add to his work on Holland House, stumbled 
over this bag of old papers saved from the Drury Lane 

193 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

fire, and sold it to him for a mere song. I was permitted 
to copy off several of Mrs. Sheridan's letters. [Very 
much amused I have been to hear that they are now the 
property of Augustin Daly, in New York, and to read 
in W. Fraser Rae's "Life of Sheridan" a paper by Lord 
Dufferin to the effect that he ought to give them back 
to the family. I should think so! They have the 
license of the time in them. They were not intended 
for publication.] With them are the first play- 
bills of the first night of "The School for Scandal" 
and other reminiscences of the greatest of England's 
modern playwrights — that name which gives distinction 
to all his gifted descendants — the name of Sheridan. 

It is to Henry, third Lord Holland, the nephew of 
Charles James Fox, that Holland House owes its liter- 
ary celebrity. , Born in 1773, the oldest son of the 
second Lord Holland, he became a perfect idol to his 
eccentric gaming uncle, a fact to which he gracefully re- 
ferred in his old age : 

Nephew of Fox and Friend of Gay, 

Be this my meed of fame : 
May those who deign to observe me say 

I Ve injured neither name. 

He did far more to illustrate both names than the 
owners thereof, but he had one moment of weakness. 
He ran away with the vulgar wife of Sir Godfrey 
Webster. Herself a West Indian heiress, named Vas- 
sall, from her portrait one would surmise that she had 
negro blood in her veins, and before she could be 
divorced from Sir Godfrey one child was born to them — 
always called Colonel Fox. The affair is all recorded 
in the Annual Register of 1796 as "one of the most 

194 



MEMORIES OF HOLLAND HOUSE 

scandalous ever mentioned in the divorce courts." They 
were married afterward. But bad women have ever had 
great power over good men. He called himself Lord 
Vassall- Holland, but there ended his weakness. He 
possessed the family talent, and Macaulay says that he 
had not his equal in the House of Commons. His public 
life of over forty years was honorable and consistent. 
He was a constant protector of all oppressed races and 
persecuted sects. Neither the prejudices nor the inter- 
ests belonging to his station could swerve him. In his 
capacity as peer he protested against the injustice done 
to Napoleon. That iniquitous decree which tied the 
fallen Emperor to a rock at St. Helena touched his noble 
heart. He and Lady Holland were always solacing 
that captivity with books, food, and money. 

He took possession of Holland House in 1796. 
Doubtless he found much to do in the way of restora- 
tion. He began to adorn it. His own ample fortune 
and that of the West Indian heiress enabled him to 
indulge his luxurious tastes. Valuable paintings, noble 
statuary, massive plate, exquisite china, rare books, 
ornate furniture, hangings ' of silk and Cordova leather, 
objects of curiosity and taste, filled those noble rooms. 

According to Macaulay his hospitality was princely. 
Not a few of the ablest men and the best were his guests. 
His home became the favorite resort of philosophers, 
statesmen, poets, and wits. Every one who had done 
anything was hailed there gladly. Lord Holland had 
that frank cordiality, that winning kindness, which 
relieved the embarrassment of the timid. What a con- 
trast he was to that rude wife of his! 

There was another aspect which Macaulay the eulo- 

195 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

gist — Macaulay the Englishman — did not mention. Hol- 
land House in those days, was under a social cloud. 
The unfaithful wife of Godfrey Webster could not, even 
as Lady Holland, be received into English society. 
This Lady Vassall- Holland must have had, however, 
great talents, or she could not for years have reigned, 
an unpleasant hostess, over her husband and over the 
wits of England. She certainly snubbed her guests in 
a most impertinent manner. 

How she must have suffered, however! It is women 
who suffer when they have something in their past which 
galls. It is they who are impertinent. It is galling 
enough to a man to be systematically shut out from 
intercourse with his natural associates. For a woman 
to be tabooed by hers must be a perpetual torture. 
Who could live, a woman to whom other women would 
not speak? But Lady Vassall- Holland lived to be very 
old, dying in 1845. It was her first legitimate son who 
was the last Lord Holland, who, in 1833, married the 
daughter of the Earl of Coventry. With him the line 
of the Fox-Hollands became extinct. He kept up the 
prestige of the house for forty years, and the late Lady 
Holland felt great interest in it. 

Lord Ilchester is a descendant of Stephen Fox, and 
he will gladly preserve intact the historical memories of 
this old place, which should have become the property of 
the nation — a great historical museum. 

It was easy to go back in memory to 1806 and to 
1833. Within these walls what memories met us! 
Here came Lord Moira, ''airing his vocabulary;" Sir 
Humphry Davy, Thurlow, Payne, Knight, Monk 
Lewis, Lord Jeffrey of the "Edinburgh Review" ; Byron, 

196 



MEMORIES OF HOLLAND HOUSE 

who dedicated "The Bride of Abydos" to Lord Hol- 
land; Dr. Parr, Sir Philip Francis; Sheridan, the wit 
and genius; Macaulay, Sydney Smith, the two Hum- 
boldts, Talleyrand, Canova, Thomas Moore, Mme. de 
Stael, Georgiana, the beautiful Duchess of Devonshire ; 
Carlyle [who has not shone at Holland House?], Metter- 
nich, Louis Philippe, Coleridge, Count d'Orsay, and 
Lord Brougham — in fact, all those famous in politics, 
diplomacy, and art were visitors there, and left their por- 
traits behind them. 

When the fourth Lord Holland took possession (he 
whose widow has but lately died), he kept up the tradi- 
tions. Chateaubriand, Scribe, and Thackeray were con- 
stant visitors. Great fetes were given in the beautiful 
old .gardens, which were unrivaled in either France or 
England. Lord Holland was made Ambassador to 
Naples. When they were in England the Queen and 
Prince Albert used to honor the house with frequent 
visits, as their children continued to do. The Prince 
and Princess of Wales were often at these more recent 
garden parties. Louis Napoleon visited Lord Holland, 
both before he was anybody and after he was everybody. 
Here came his beautiful favorites, Marquise de Gallifet 
and Countess Castiglione, and others. Here the exiled 
family of Louis Philippe came when the "reign was 
over," and it was whispered that Lady Holland and the 
Due d'Aumale did not hate each other. A "censorious 
world," as Mephistopheles says. 

On coming home from one of these long absences in 
Naples, Lord and Lady Holland, who had no children, 
brought a young lady with them, whom they called 
Mary Fox. When she was to be presented, the Queen 

197 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

called for a private interview with Lady Holland. When 
they parted both were in tears. But the Queen said : 
"Let Mary Fox be treated with royal honors.' * And 
when she came to be married in 1872, in the Roman 
Catholic church at Kensington, the Diplomatic Corps, 
the Cabinet Ministers, and the Prince and Princess of 
Wales were present. It was the first time that a mem- 
ber of the royal family has assisted at mass since the 
reign of James II. Mr. Gladstone would not attend; 
but Lord Granville, the head of the church, was pres- 
ent, and kept his eyes on Count Beust to see when to 
kneel. I give this anecdote on the authority of Lord 
Houghton. 

Who was Mary Fox, Princess Lichtenstein? She 
died young, estranged from her supposed mother. .She 
never recovered from the shock it is said, of being told 
that she was not a daughter of Lord and Lady Holland. 
Gossip gave her for a mother a Queen of Naples, or a 
father among the sons of Louis Philippe. So far as I 
know, nobody knew who she was. She came very near 
being married to a royal Duke in England, it was said; 
and so she added another to the many romances of Hol- 
land House. 

Those who like to believe that fashion and rank 
should honor genius will honor Holland House. One 
hopes that so noble a legend may continue : 

Surely may we delight to pause 

On our care-goaded road, 
Refuged from Time's most bitter laws, 

In this august abode. 



198 



Holland House Again 

Since writing about Holland House a few weeks ago, 
several letters have reached me on that subject, one of 
them the following: 

"Dear Mrs. Sherwood: I do not know anything about the 
early history of Holland House. Will you kindly inform me what 
was the origin of the name, also of the two families who both lived 
there, the Rich Hollands and the Fox Hollands. Yours truly, 

A. Stockton." 

And here is another letter: 

"Dear Mrs. Sherwood: You are wrong as to the statement 
that Lady Vassall Holland had negro blood in her veins. Her father 
was brother to the Vassall who built Mr. Longfellow's house in Cam- 
bridge, and her mother was a daughter of Col. Clark, who was a very 
dissolute man, &c. He left two families in Jamaica, from which fact 
that rumor may have arisen, &c. Yours, A. C. 

This lady sends her full name, and writes so clearly, 
that I suppose the memoirs from which I derived the 
idea that Lady Vassall Holland had colored blood in her 
veins must have been incorrect, but her portrait at Hol- 
land House would lead one to that belief. 

Holland House, then, to answer some of these ques- 
tions, is in London. It is a large structure, built in the 
Elizabethan style, surrounded by a very large park. It 
lies in the middle of Kensington. Busy London has now 
crept up to it, and surrounded its vast park. It may be 
said to be an oasis in the midst of brick and mortar. It 

199 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

was at one time called Kensington Manor, and later on 
Cope Castle, from the name of a Gentleman of the Bed- 
chamber of James I, who had acquired the property and 
erected a part of the residence. Through the daughter 
of this gentleman it passed to the nephew of the Earl of 
Essex, created Baron Kensington and Holland. It is he 
who gave this name to the house. Even in that period 
it became the resort of fashionable loungers, artists, and 
men of letters. Van Dyck spent several years under its 
roof and painted its owner in 1675. This Lord Holland 
was beheaded. His son's widow married Addison. 
Then began the literary history of Holland House. It 
became a literary centre, and Milton's daughters were 
seen there. The members of the English aristocracy 
were proud to be asked to meet the literary people. 

In 17 16, Holland House became the home of Addi- 
son, who had married the Countess of Warwick. She 
owned it for the time being. Previously it had been a 
sort of Parliamentary headquarters. There came Crom- 
well, Lambert, Fairfax, Ireton, and other Puritans. 
Before Addison married he had a pretty little house of 
his own which Charles II had fitted up for Nell 
Gywnne, and he became tutor to the graceless son of the 
noble widow. The amusements of this stepson of Addi- 
son were breaking windows, beating watchmen, and 
trundling women, headed up in hogsheads, down Hol- 
born Hill. The Countess coquetted with her son's 
tutor, but at length, when he received a large legacy 
from a brother in India, and it appeared that he was to be 
appointed Secretary of State, the Countess promised to 
marry him, in terms which Dr. Johnson characterizes as 
" terms in which a Turkish Princess is espoused, to 

200 



HOLLAND HOUSE AGAIN 

whom the Sultan is reputed to declare: 'Daughter, I 
give thee this man for thy slave. ' ' ' 

But long before this, Holland House had been the 
property of Sir Walter Cope, whose daughter and heiress 
married Sir Henry Rich, who was created Earl Holland. 
He added the wings, which complete the beautiful house 
as it now stands. They must not be confounded with 
the later family of Fox, who were Barons Holland, the 
only connection between the two families being that 
they both lived in Holland House. During various peri- 
ods Holland House was rented. Among other celeb- 
rities who hired it was William Penn, who, while living 
there was so favorite a courtier that he had to go out of 
the cellar door to get rid of the applicants for place. 

But Stephen Fox, a poor choir boy, a handsome lad, 
a favorite with his Bishop, had the good luck to follow 
another patron, Lord Percy, after the battle of Worces- 
ter, to France, where they formed part of the forlorn 
little Court of the exiled Stuart. He had the good luck 
to hear of the death of Cromwell six hours before the 
express had arrived, and, rushing into the tennis court 
where the Merry Monarch was amusing himself, he 
begged leave to call him really ''King of Great Britain." 
He was easily forgiven for bringing such good news; 
became a favorite with the pleasure-loving Charles II, 
and rose from being a servant to almost the rank of a 
Privy Councilor. 

After the Restoration the fortunes of Stephen Fox 
grew flourishingly. He was knighted in 1665, made 
Commissioner of the Treasury and Paymaster of the 
army, and accumulated a vast fortune. He married 
his eldest daughter to Lord Cornwallis, whose son 

20I 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

surrendered at Yorktown, giving her ;£ 12,000, equal 
perhaps to a quarter of a million to-day. Stephen 
Fox was honest and a man of mark. He held office 
under William and Anne; he founded hospitals, built 
churches, and performed many philanthropic deeds. To 
him more than any other man does England owe Chelsea 
Hospital. He made a second marriage, when he was 
seventy-six, with a young girl named Christian Hope. 
This beautiful name proved an augury, and it was a 
happy marriage. The great estates of the whilom choir 
boy devolved on her two sons. Henry became an 
eminent statesman, bought Holland House, and was 
made Baron Holland, the first of the Fox-Hollands. 

This Henry Fox, born in 1705, now became owner of 
the property. We all know Fox and Pitt. Fox and 
William Pitt (afterwards Earl of Chatham) were rivals at 
school and rivals in politics. The rivalry descended to 
another generation, and Charles James Fox, the son of 
Henry, was the great rival of the younger William Pitt. 
Fox was returned to Parliament in 1735, and attached 
himself to Walpole, perhaps the first man to admit that 
in politics there is nothing but corruption. 

The genius of Henry Fox as a debater hides from 
the reader his utter unscrupulousness. He became 
thoroughly unpopular. He sold himself for a peerage; 
got cheated; and, finally, when about forty, married Lady 
Caroline Lennox in 1749, hired Holland House, and 
in 1767 bought it. This Lady Caroline Lennox was a 
granddaughter of Louise de Querouaille, the Duchess of 
Portsmouth, and Charles II, and the Duke, her father, 
scouted at the idea of her marrying a commoner, but 
when they tried to marry her to some one else she 

202 



HOLLAND HOUSE AGAIN 

shaved off her eyebrows and ran away with Henry Fox. 
Her father's cousin, the Duke of Grafton, was particu- 
larly angry at this mesalliance, but his daughter, Lady 
Susan Strangeways, afterward ran away with an actor. 

Lady Caroline Lennox became mother of the 
famous Charles James Fox. Henry Fox and Lady 
Caroline Lennox were forgiven, and they lived many 
years together, protecting her young sister, Lady Sarah 
Lennox, whose history would make a three-volume 
novel. This beautiful girl of fifteen used to make hay in 
the park, and Kensington House, then the royal resi- 
dence, held an inflammable Prince of Wales, who became 
George III, who fell in love with the beauty, and soon 
after his accession to the throne asked Lady Sarah to be 
his wife, but she was engaged in a flirtation with a cer- 
tain Lord Newbottle, whose very name is ominous. 
The young King was piqued by this, but every fine 
morning he went riding on horseback up Holland Lane 
to see Lady Sarah make hay in the park. No doubt 
Henry Fox was pleased at the idea of being brother-in- 
law to a King, but the rest of England did not like it, so 
Lord Bute was sent off and secured for the Prince a very 
ugly Princess called Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz. 

Lady Sarah was very plucky. "I shall take care," 
she wrote, "to show that I am not mortified. Luckily 
for me I never loved him. I only liked him. The 
thing I am most angry at is for having looked so like a 
fool and at having gone so far for nothing' ' — to make 
hay ! Is not that a true woman ? All she regretted was 
the time lost in her amateur haymaking and a freckle or 
two received from the sun. This beautiful Lady Sarah 
Lennox, if she did not marry the future King, was asked 

203 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

to be bridesmaid at the royal wedding, when she so out- 
shone the ugly little Princess who did marry him that 
the Earl of Westmoreland, who had been off with the 
Pretender, mistook her for the Queen, and, plumping 
down on both knees, kissed her hand. Some ready- 
witted fellow remarked that "the Earl had always loved 
pretenders. ' ' 

This beautiful creature became Lady Napier and the 
mother of three famous sons. She had several early 
escapades, but she disappeared from public view until 
the incident recited in the following pathetic anecdote 
revealed her in her old age: The Dean of Canterbury 
preached a sermon in behalf of an infirmary for diseases 
of the eye. This had been founded by George III, when 
he began to lose his own sight. A poor old woman was 
led out weeping bitterly. This was no other than the 
aged Lady Napier, herself blind, and so we see our last 
of the pretty haymaker. Perhaps she had loved the 
King all her life. Who knows? 

One of the loveliest portraits at Holland House is 
that of Lady Susan Strangeways, daughter of Lord 
Ilchester and cousin of this same Henry Fox. She ran 
away with one William O'Brien, an actor, and Horace 
Walpole, writing of it, says: "Even a footman would 
have been preferable. 3 I However, they made a country 
gentleman of him, and she lived, it is said, happily with 
him until 1827. 

Henry Fox died in 1774, leaving three sons. 
Stephen, the eldest, died six months after succeeding to 
the title, leaving an infant son, who was to become the 
third Lord Holland, to whom Holland House owes its 
celebrity. The second was Charles James Fox, the 

204 



HOLLAND HOUSE AGAIN 

orator and statesman; the third, Edward, a General in 
the army. For almost a generation Burke, Pitt, and 
Fox were the foremost statesmen of England. They 
ranked as Calhoun, Clay, and Webster afterward ranked 
in our history. Many writers call Charles Fox the 
greatest of British statesmen. 

Holland House is full of memorials of him. His 
father had a pride and delight in him almost affecting, 
and spoiled him religiously. No servant was allowed to 
thwart his lightest caprice. Before he was fourteen his 
father took him to the Continent to show him life. 
Trevylyan in his life of Charles James Fox says. "Here 
the devil seems to have entered into Lord Holland." At 
Paris and Baden they visited the gaming houses, and the 
boy alarmed his too foolish father by his love of play. 
He commenced here that habit which became the ruling 
passion of his life, and which, in spite of the enormous 
fortune left him by his father, became his ruin. He would 
always pay his debts of honor. One of his creditors, 
to whom he owed a common debt for household expenses, 
despairing of ever getting his ;£8oo, tore the paper in 
his presence — a promissory note — and saying, * ' Now it 
is a debt of honor," the curious creature paid it. 

Old Kensington Palace, now the home of the lively 
Princess Louise, is not far from Holland House. I 
have heard that she has often walked across the park 
to sketch this wonderful house, and that she once 
sat in the sedan chair in the hall to have her own photo- 
graph taken. Sedan chairs were first introduced into 
England by Charles I, and this one had carried the way- 
ward Lady Holland to many a "rout" and "drum" no 
doubt. On certain great gates on Kensington Road are 

205 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

gilded letters "H. H.," behind whose spell I feared I 
could not enter. Mr. Lowell told me that even he, who 
had unlocked every door for me in England, could not 
give me the "Open sesame." But I fortunately remem- 
bered that Mr. Bierstadt had given me a letter to James 
McHenry, Esq., who lived in Addison Road, Holland 
Park. He and Sir Frederic Leighton had brought a 
few acres of Lady Holland, and had built themselves 
lovely houses there. On the immediate right hand of 
Mr. McHenry's portico stood a church, and the music 
was floating up to heaven as the door opened into a 
room which was half conservatory. As we sat there 
talking to our host and looking into Holland Park it 
seemed paradise. The next day he took us all over the 
famous house, which had become his passion. The first 
surprise of the fine facade was followed by the coup 
d'ceil of the great hall and then the ascent of the tor- 
tuous little staircase in the wall, from whose slits of win- 
dows one saw the formal exquisite Dutch gardens, laid 
out in patterns. The ice has been broken. I went 
again and again. 

At Aix I met a lady who had been a companion to 
Lady Holland. She gave me permission to see the 
house. This lady told me of the two ghosts which 
always appear to any Lady Holland who is about to die. 
One is Lady Susan Strangeways. I believe the old 
house is not now shown to strangers — a very great pity, 
for its treasures are inexhaustible. There are forty of 
Sir Joshua Reynolds's best portraits in it, for one thing, 
and one is reminded of his fabled epitaph, the best 
specimen of that kind of wit : The epigram — 



206 



HOLLAND HOUSE AGAIN 

Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, 

He has not left a wiser or better behind. 

His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand; 

His manners were gentle, complying, and bland; 

Still born to improve us in every part, 

His pencil our faces, his manners our heart; 

To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, 

When they judged without skill he was still hard of hearing; 

When they talked of their Raphaels.Correggios, and stuff, 

He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff! 

To even hint of the inexhaustible treasures of paint- 
ings, books, and unique treasures would fill a book. Mr. 
McHenry made eleven volumes, illustrated with pictures, 
relating to this house. 

To another famous house in this lovely park I was 
welcomed every Sunday. This was the house of Sir 
Frederic Leighton, the President of the Royal Academy, 
and the most famous figure-artist of Great Britain. This 
wonderful house has been so often described that I need 
hardly refer to its beautiful tiled Moorish court and foun- 
tain, its treasures of art, and its truly charming host, a 
prince by nature. Sir Frederic Leighton, apart from his 
genius as an artist, had social gifts of the highest, and 
to me he became the guide to much of the art of Lon- 
don, which included visits under his guidance to most 
of the celebrated collections. 

He showed me in his own gallery a portrait of Sir 
Joshua Reynolds painted by himself, sitting in the very 
chair which Sir Frederic had been lucky enough to buy, 
and in which he himself always sat as he presided at the 
business meetings of the Royal Academy. The Presi- 
dent of the Royal Academy has a right to claim at any 
time a private audience with the Queen. So fond of 
him were the members of the royal family that it was 

207 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

said that he never had officially to enforce this right. 
He was ever a favorite guest at the Queen's dinners, and 
he told me an anecdote which I had not heard before, 
which he said the Prince Consort was fond of repeating 
as illustrating the quick wit of George IV, a Prince sel- 
dom praised. Once, while he was Prince Regent, 
George asked Sydney Smith who was the wickedest man 
that ever lived. "The Regent Orleans, and he was a 
prince," said Sydney Smith. "No," said the Regent, 
"I should give the preference to his tutor, the Abbe 
Dubois, and he was a priest, Mr. Sydney." 

Sir Frederic vastly admired a saying of Henry, the 
third Lord Holland — "Slander is a two-edged knife 
without a handle ; he who clutches at it gets the worst 
cut himself." Macaulay said of Holland House: "The 
shadows on the wall are still eloquent. Many men who 
have guided the politics of Europe, who have moved 
great assemblies, who have put life into bronze and 
canvas, and who have left to posterity things which it 
will not wittingly let die, have gathered there. I f And 
after this noble encomium on its past, I can say nothing. 
I must take my way back under its graceful elms to 
busy London, and to common, every-day life, grateful 
for the Summer days when I was permitted these 
glimpses of its precious collection and of its unique 
position in the world of thought as a republic of talent. 



208 



England in Spring 



More singing birds — a voyage with Patti and Sem- 
brich — what was considered a fast trip on the Oregon, 
in April, 1884 — a spring journey to England, and an ex- 
perience of the coaching parade, and a drive with a 
modern Mr. Weller. 

I copy from my journal, 1884: 

The service of the ' ' Oregon ' ' is perfect, so far as the 
stewards and stewardesses are concerned, the table lux- 
urious ; and Captain Price is a fine old sea-dog, who takes 
good care of his ship. He, of course, is highly elated, as 
the commodore of a Guion line, to have made the two 
quickest passages on record with his great new ship, 
whose smokestacks, even, are sixteen feet in diameter, and 
whose decks afford a promenade like walking around 
Boston Common. We went very far south to avoid the ice, 
and on Wednesday we were rewarded with a warm, soft, 
smooth day ; the decks looked like a garden party, as the 
ladies sat about knitting, crocheting, and embroidering. 
Patti and Sembrich were on board, and the famous prima 
had a dog, a rooster, and a parrot, which she was bear- 
ing to her home in Wales. I talked with her as she sat 
smiling on deck, in a little blue hood, looking very 
pretty. She was sprightly and pleasant, but said she 
should not come to America again. She was very com- 
plimentary to Sembrich, who, she says, has the "coming 
voice." "Not weak like Madame Gerster," she added. 

209 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

I asked them both to sing for us, but they said they could 
not, as they could not eat. "If we do not eat well, we 
cannot sing, ' ' remarked both the ladies ; but as I saw them 
on either side of Captain Price at the dinner-table, he 
playing Sir Roger de Coverley to them, I did not notice 
any lack of appetite. They could have sung if they 
would. Sembrich is a very gay-hearted, romping school- 
girl of a person. Her husband, a Pole, a distinguished 
musician, found her a poor girl at the Conservatoire, 
married her, teaches her her roles, and is making her 
career for her. On Thursday and Friday we got a chop- 
ping sea again, and balls of worsted and cotton, purses, 
reticules, and umbrellas went sliding out of laps into the 
sea. Chairs were tied to the rails of the ship, and lively 
times ensued. But there was no, or very little, seasick- 
ness. I advise every one who crosses the Atlantic to 
strive for the "Oregon." (Alas! for human hopes! the 
"Oregon" was mysteriously lost near New York a few 
years after this.) The arrival at Liverpool, and the custom- 
house business, seemed very bunglingly managed, and 
the distinguished capitalist, Mr. McCormick of Chicago, 
who was on board, said that, "Such mismanagement 
would not be endured in the West if one was shipping 
goods." 

All our trunks were examined for dynamite, and the 
officials evidently thought we brought it in our smelling- 
bottles. Two English officers on board, who ought to have 
known better, were "awfully alarmed" about dynamite, 
and told me of seditious newspapers, and of plots, "at 
which our government winked" (of which I had never 
heard). Indeed, no old nurse's tale was ever more absurd 
and foolish than the talk of these educated men. It is a 



ENGLAND IN SPRING 

queer trait of the English people that such a national 
scare as this of dynamite makes them all cowards, and 
really unable to see the truth. We, however, got off 
without revealing our dynamite, even if we had charged 
ourselves with it in lumps (so pleasant a thing it would be 
to carry around !), and reached the Northwestern Hotel, 
unblown-up. It is a satisfaction now to remember that 
one of the English officers who had been most accusa- 
tory about the dynamite was one of the " suspects" of 
the custom-house, and his neat boxes of American turnip- 
seeds were all overturned and looked at suspiciously, 
while our real American boxes were most lightly handled. 
The Northwestern Hotel, at Liverpool, received us all 
most comfortably, including the parrot, "Ben Butler," 
Madame Patti's parrot, who seemed to me, with his 
"battle-stained eye," to bear quite a resemblance to his 
distinguished godfather, and a rooster, who was a con- 
tribution to the farm in Wales. Pretty Rab, the English 
setter, belonging to Madame Patti, frightened to death, 
though he was at sea, still contributed to our amuse- 
ment. Nicolini took care of him. 

We had other distinguished people on board; Major 
Walter, who owns the original Sharpless portraits of 
Washington, and who is indignant that some Chicago 
merchant said, "Washington! there is n't a dollar in 
him!" — and righteously offended that our government 
does not buy these fine originals, so praised by Washing- 
ton Irving, Longfellow and Bryant — is a very cultivated 
scholar, has written a folio volume on Shakespeare, and 
is the friend of R. D. Blackmore, the accomplished 
author of "The Maid of Sker," "Alice Lorraine, " and 
other delightful English novels. Blackmore, he says, 

211 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

only writes when his pear-trees will not blossom ; he is, 
in fact, a nursery gardener at heart. Hence the deli- 
cious descriptions of gardens in Kent which fill "Alice 
Lorraine." Major Sharpless Walter has been praying 
ever since that this late, cold spring might blight all Black- 
more's blossoms, so that Blackmore would write another 
novel. 

It seems a jump from Madame Patti and "Ben 
Butler," the "Oregon" and her motley crew, to Chester, 
St. Chads, the somber cathedral and its restorations, but 
we were there before the leviathan could swim aleague, and 
a lovely English morning greeted us. Curiously, the races 
were going on, and in the public drawing-room we met 
an English racing professional bookmaker, who thought 
we were English ladies of rank, interested in betting, and 
he offered to give us "points." When he heard that 
we did not care for anything at Chester which was not 
a thousand years old, he was disgusted, and said the 
countrywomen of Iroquois, and Foxhall, and Ethan 
Allen, ought to like to see a race. But we told him old 
Father Time was quick enough for us, and we wanted to 
go back on him, even for a few centuries ; so we went out 
to look at the rows, and the ancient walls, and the cathe- 
dral, which I, for one, do not find improved by its resto- 
rations. We drove to Eaton Hall, the splendid show- 
place of the Duke of Westminster, now in deep sorrow 
over the death of Earl Grosvenor, his eldest son, pros- 
pective heir to millions. Pallida mors ceqito pede pulsat; 
it has invaded this splendid palace, walked these corridors, 
where hang the masterpieces of Rubens and Vandyke, 
and has stolen that glorious young life which alone made 
them valuable. In the chapel I saw a marble effigy of 

212 



ENGLAND IN SPRING 

the late Duchess, a woman whom I thought the most 
beautiful, gracious creature in all England, when I vis- 
ited London before. There she lies, in marble majesty, 
her little dog at her feet, her fine profile befitting the 
classic marble. She was a daughter of the beautiful 
Duchess of Sutherland, and died about 1879. Her 
brother, Lord Ronald Gower, made this recumbent 
statue. 

The late English spring, unusually cold after a warm 
winter, had hindered the flowers and trees, but still the 
yellow gorse was out on every bank, and primroses lin- 
gered in the hedge-rows. The trees tasseled forth a few 
reluctant green leaves, and the grass was an emerald. In 
the midst of all this spreads Eaton Hall, a most stately, 
superb structure. Like nothing out of England, it dom- 
inates the scene. Several of Millais's best portraits are 
on the walls, of the Duke's beautiful daughters, of him- 
self, and his wife ; and the library, an immense room, 
contains some of the choice books of the world. We 
were allowed, on payment of a shilling, to see the 
interior, with its priceless bric-a-brac and magnificent 
ornamentation. We went thence, by the time-honored 
custom, to Leamington, and thence to Stratford-upon- 
Avon. The weather was cold and forbidding, and noth- 
ing has happened about Shakespeare since 1650. I 
spare you a description, beautiful, rare, rich, and thrill- 
ing as is Stratford-upon-Avon. 

London is dull (1884) on account of the recent death of 
the Duke of Albany, and the more recent death of the Em- 
press of Austria. The weather for a week has been bad, 
but to-day the sun shines. We are in time for the one 
hundred and sixteenth exhibition of the Royal Academy, 

21.3 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

where there are some eighteen hundred noteworthy pic- 
tures. There are, of course, some very fine pictures, 
but also a woful amount of rubbish. Mr. Alma-Tadema's 
picture of the Emperor Hadrian in England visiting a 
Roman-British pottery, is an exquisite thing. It is a 
piece of historical genre, characterized by a rather com- 
plicated arrangement of figures, but is rich in that vivid 
sense of reality which inspires this author's works. The 
painting of the primroses, ivy, and wall-flowers, the neces- 
sary and varied accessories of vases, jars, cups, dresses, 
potters' implements, and the wondrous painting of a piece 
of marble mosaic, is a triumph of artistic discrimination 
of tint and texture. Our American Broughton has made 
a new departure with his outdoor Flemish subjects. "A 
Field Maiden, Brabant,' ' is afresh, nice picture. There 
is a classic picture, "Cymon and Iphigenia," which 
shows the artistic sensibility and refined taste of Sir 
Frederic Leighton, that man so accomplished that they 
say of him, "He is the best rider, fencer, musician, and 
man of society in London, and occasionally he does a 
little drawing and painting, pour passer le temps." 
Mr. A. W. Bayes, an artist hitherto unknown to me, 
has a capital genre picture, full of fun, of two gay danc- 
ing maidens surprised by an old Puritan father. Mr. 
Yeames, R. A., has an historical piece in which the big 
wigs of a past generation, Addison, Steele, Marlborough, 
and Congreve, are imaged forth. Mr. Millais has an 
original picture called, "The Idyl," — a fifer in a garrison 
in the Highlands is solacing his leisure by practicing his 
instrument, and three idle lassies are listening to him. 
Although it is heresy to say so, I was not much pleased 
with this picture. There was a much-admired picture of 

214 



ENGLAND IN SPRING 

"Thisbe," by E. Long, R. A., white and gray and ''long 
drawn out/' and the catalogue says that it immortal- 
izes "that moment when at the chink in the wall, the 

lovers 

Kissed its stony mouth, like lovers true, 
But neither side could let the kisses through." 

The landscapes did not seem to me equal to our Ameri- 
can work except two fine examples of sea work, by J. C. 
Hook— "The Mirror of the Sea Men," and "Catching 
Sand Eels." 

Mr. Filk has some excellent genre pictures, in which 
he excels; one brings home to us Ellen Terry in her 
most delightful part, "Beatrice Overhearing Ursula and 
Hero Discoursing of Benedict's Passion," and "Cruel 
Necessity," founded on that somewhat fabulous "Mock 
Pearl of History," the not-well authenticated anecdote 
that Cromwell visited Whitehall, and, looking on the dead 
features of Charles, said: "Cruel Necessity." I do not 
believe CromWell ever did anything half so humane. It 
is not so good a conception of the same (supposed) his- 
torical incident as Delaroche's. There is a sort of 
Hogarthian picture by Orchardson, called the "Man- 
age de Convenance," which is a gem. A gentleman past 
the bloom of youth, who has a head as shining as a bil- 
liard-ball, is seated at the dinner-table, opposite his young 
wife. She has married him, evidently, for an "estab- 
lishment," and they sit at table, mutually bored. The 
dinner of twelve courses is coming to an end, the velvet- 
footed butler is about retiring. Soon will come the 
dreaded tete-a-tete between the uncongenial pair. The 
flowers, fruit, decanters, glass, everything is painted in 
the most skillful way. It is delicate and strong in its 

215 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

scheme of color. I have rarely seen a modern picture 
more in the style of that great master, Hogarth. 

I wish I had time and space to describe some of these 
pictures, those of Denby Sadler, P. R. Morris Wells, R. 
A., Ned Morgan, and the Millais portraits. Oaless and 
Frank Holl have fine portraits, the latter one of the 
Prince of Wales, as a "Bencher of the Middle Temple," 
very forcible and fine, and like. 

One of our gayest amusements is to go to see the 
coaches depart from White Horse Cellars, the four ama- 
teur coaches, which start every morning from Piccadilly 
on their journey to Windsor, Guildford, Dorking, and 
Virginia Water. No country in existence could do this 
but England in such fine style, with a "noble lord" on 
the box, who does not refuse the tip of a shilling. They 
are spruce amateur whips, these successors of old Mr. 
Weller, and no doubt drive through "seventy miles of 
adoring females." Without hope of profit or reward, 
these enterprising gentlemen mount the box of the "New 
Lines," or the "Old Lines," or the "Perseverance," 
and drive three horses out and back, and bear the 
expense of horsing these amateur drags. The drive to 
Guildford, through Kingston Vale, Thames Ditton, 
Kingston, and Wisley Heath affords one a charming 
glimpse of English scenery from the top of a coach, and 
Guildford is well worth the visit. The price of such a 
trip is about ten dollars, and is worth twice the money. 
An excellent lunch is served at Guildford; one must 
lunch at the "Angel." 

The entertainments at the Crystal Palace, at Syden- 
ham, are dreadfully crowded and fatiguing, but it is best 
to go out and make a day of it. They certainly give you 

216 



ENGLAND IN SPRING 

a great deal. There is an admirable orchestral concert, 
a military band, a drama, and a performance on the 
great organ. An exhibition of arts and manufactures 
is now going on. A very good dinner may be had at 
the restaurant, and it is well always to lunch there. 

Afterwards we dined with Edmund Gosse, the genial 
poet. We are amazed at the promptitude with which 
our cards and notes and letters of introduction are 
answered. It is a rebuke to our American dilatoriness 
in this direction. The London post delivers your letter 
and your answer in two hours, and the frequency of 
telegrams is somewhat confusing. I wish that in our 
large cities we could count on a similar convenience, par- 
ticularly of note delivery. 

London, grand and mysterious city, has taken a strong 
hold on us. " Those who established the mysteries •, who- 
ever they were," says Socrates, "knew much of human 
nature." To see these vast old streets, this sweeping 
tide of human beings, to go down to the People's Palace, 
and to come back to Buckingham Palace, and then to 
go to the Thames Embankment and to notice how new 
and glittering it looks, to watch "all sorts and conditions 
of men," to see the tide of fashionable life coming back 
to Whitehall, and to believe that the next generation 
may see the court end of town again, there, where 
Charles and Henrietta Maria embarked and fed the 
swans — all this is a perpetual subject for thought and 
memory and dreaming, and the great city is full of mys- 
tery, mystery, everywhere. How many a human life 
has been built up in these walls! How many a human 
sacrifice is going up perpetually! We believe in tales of 
gnomes, kobolds, Telchines, and the Cabiri, as we look 

217 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

up these endless streets, and then comes along the 
mummery of the Salvation Army, blowing trumpets and 
playing drums, followed, I am sorry to say, by an 
army of children in white robes, poor, fatigued, deluded 
wretches, and an endless river of vagabondage — this is 
the living mystery of the nineteenth century, that there 
can be such deluded people ! 

We find the London lodging-house very expensive, 
and somewhat stuffy. But we believe that the days of 
the lodging-house are numbered; a thin and almost 
indivisible line divides the London season from the 
months which precede it, but in the "season" the lodg- 
ing-house keeper makes enough to bear him through the 
rest of the year. The public in May rush to London, 
and all the world becomes conscious that it is the thing 
to be diverted and dazzled, and "Scrooge from Scrooge - 
ville" takes it out of one in the model lodging-house. 
Immense American styles of hotels are consequently being 
built, and one, the Grand Hotel (formerly Northumber- 
land House, or on its site), is a monument of comfort. 
There one really lives more cheaply, getting more for his 
money than in the stuffy lodging-house, although, it must 
be conceded that cleanliness, comfort, good cooking and 
extreme respectability and quiet can be obtained in 
the best lodgings. The opening of the Royal Academy 
seems to be a kind of official proclamation that the sea- 
son has commenced, the festival begun, and then the 
lodging-house keeper begins to fleece, or "charge, 
Chester, charge." An immense structure, the Hotel 
Metropole, is going up, and in these and many other 
enormous houses, built on the American plan, the Lon- 
don lodging-house keeper begins to hear the death-knell 

218 



ENGLAND IN SPRING 

of his annual delights in bringing in so many shillings for 
a lamp, so much for a cup of tea, and ten guineas a week 
for the third story, merely rent, all the rest extra, until 
the starved lodger looks like the "thin edge of a worn 
sovereign." We have not had time yet to go to the 
National Health Exhibition. It is much talked of, but 
it is feared that it is a mere advertising medium for 
enterprising tradesmen, who can thus bring their wares 
before thousands who would otherwise not see them. 
For instance, a high block is devoted to Yeatman's yeast 
powder, another to a milk company, and enclosed cases 
filled with hams, cheeses, and such ordinary comestibles. 
I shall devote my spare hours to the pictures. The 
Archbishop of Canterbury has expressed a wish that 
"art were less the luxury of the rich, and that the poor 
could enjoy it more." Popular art should mean more 
than the diffusion of chromo-lithographs. Indeed, the 
archbishop read a letter from a workman, who begged 
that people of his class might be helped to see good 
pictures. He said that it would be desirable to people 
with "hard lives and cheerless prospects." We all know 
how little harm there could be in this form of socialism. 

In the House of Lords they are busying themselves 
putting down pigeon shooting. It seems a small busi- 
ness for such great names as Lord Balfour of Burleigh, 
Lord Redesdale, Lord Cowper, and Lord Aberdare, yet 
they discussed it with feeling and with temper. 

We make the inquiry, Where is the shrine to Charles 
Dickens? 

Where is there consecrated earth for him who had 
inspired the English people with a new heart — who awoke 
sympathies and feelings and impulses all unknown before? 

219 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

Why do not London streets open hospitals and build 
monuments to this great spirit, who made the poor boy 
so interesting, the poor girl so poetical, who remedied 
abuses, pulled down old and foolish structures, the king 
of wits, the melter of hearts! 

Well done, old Abbey, to take him to thy grand 

bosom ! There in the clay, made rich by thy dead of a 

thousand years, there should fitly lie Charles Dickens, 

and as he has said in the dearest of his Christmas stories, 

We keep his memory green ! 

"The American," says a good writer, "has learned 
his London and his England principally through Shakes- 
peare, and later on through Dickens. How can he show 
his gratitude to these two great guides?" 



220 



General de Trobriand's Romantic Life 

Romantic was the life of General de Trobriand, who 
died last month, the only Frenchman since LaFayette 
to attain the rank of Major-General in our army. Phi- 
lippe Regis Denis de Keredern, Baron (afterward Comte) 
de Trobriand, was born June 4, 18 16, at the Chateau 
des Rochettes, near Tours. He belonged to the old no- 
bility of Brittany, but was born in Tours, for at that time 
his father, Gen. Joseph de Trobriand, was commanding 
that military district. When a youth, Regis de Tro- 
briand was put on the list of the pages of Charles X, then 
King of France. During the monarchy the young nobles 
who became pages were brought up at Court, under the 
superintendence of one of the Marshals of France, who 
took charge of their education and prepared them for en- 
tering St. Cyr, the West Point of France. From St. Cyr 
they took their commissions in the army. 

The revolution of 1830 — which sent the Bourbons 
into their last exile — changed the course of de Trobri- 
and's military education. Not wishing to serve under 
the new government, his father, General de Trobriand, 
who was then commanding at Rouen, resigned from the 
army and made his son follow another course of military 
studies at the same time that he was taking his college 
degrees. Trobriand was graduated as Bachelier-es-lettres 
at Orleans in 1834, and as licencti-en-droit at Pottiers in 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

1838. While at Pottiers he wrote a novel, — ' ' Les Gentils- 
hommes de TQuest" — which created a great sensation. 
In 1 841, after his father's death, and being then Baron 
de Trobriand, he came with a friend to America as a 
traveler to see the country. In those days few persons, 
particularly Frenchmen, came to America. His arrival, 
bringing letters to our first people, was quite a social inci- 
dent. His good looks, title, accomplishments, and great 
personal attractions made him a social lion. He met and 
became engaged to Mary Mason Jones, daughter of Isaac 
Jones, second President of the Chemical Bank, and 
granddaughter of John Mason, founder and first Presi- 
dent of that institution. The marriage took place in 
Paris in January, 1843, with great ceremony. The 
reception, at which many members of the Faubourg St. 
Germain were represented, was held at the Hotel Galli- 
fet, where the family resided that Winter. The wit- 
nesses to the marriage on the side of the bridegroom 
were the Due de Clermont Tonnerre, formerly minister 
of Charles X, and the Marquis de la Rochejaquelin. 
The witnesses for the bride were two American gentle- 
men, Robert Ray, Esq., and Colonel Thorn. After their 
marriage the Baron and Baroness de Trobriand went to 
Italy, where they joined the Court of the Duchesse de 
Berri, mother of Henri V, the Bourbon heir to the 
throne of France. 

Here, attached to the exiled Princes, de Trobriand 
led, for several years, a life divided between his duties 
at Court, and the cultivation of his talents for music and 
painting. 

Henri V was young and his companions were 
young, so all was done in those days to dispel the 



DE TROBRIAND'S ROMANTIC LIFE 

dreariness of exile in a life of incessant activity and 
amusement. Venice was then part of the Austrian 
Kingdom of Lombardy, and ruled over by the Grand 
Duke Regnier as Viceroy, who, with his beautiful wife, 
a Princess of Savoy, also held a brilliant Court. Din- 
ners, balls, visits from different royalties of Europe, for 
whom great receptions had to be given, all helped to 
make those Winters pass in a round of gayety. Ama- 
teur theatricals were given every two weeks in the palace 
of the Duchesse de Berri, Palazzo Vendramin. De 
Trobriand was stage manager and principal actor. The 
little theater was filled with the ladies and gentlemen of 
the Court, and once, in the front row, sat seven royal- 
ties (one being the Emperor Nicholas I of Russia) who 
were visiting Henri V. 

An incident of that time of youthful exuberance 
among the young men of the Court made a sensation 
throughout Europe. 

A discussion having arisen on the subject of Lord 
Byron's famous seven-mile swim, a wager was laid by 
the Comte de Chambord (Henri V) and three young 
men, of whom de Trobriand was one, that they would 
also accomplish it. The terms were that, though accom- 
panied by boats, they were never to rest even a finger 
on a boat during the distance of seven miles. 

The feat was performed by all four, though they all 
were made quite ill by it. The only one who escaped 
evil consequences was Trobriand, who was dared 
by Monseigneur (Henri V) to row him home in his 
gondola; and he did it. The strain at first was intense, 
but this second and different exercise of his muscles 
saved Trobriand the illness suffered by his compan- 

223 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

ions. This swimming feat on the part of Henri V was 
noised abroad all over Europe by his adherents to dis- 
prove the assertion of his opponents that he was a 
weakling unfit to reign. 

In 1848 or 1849, at the request of his father-in-law, 
Trobriand came to reside in America. His fondness 
for literary work and desire for occupation induced him 
to start a French review, the Revue du Nouveau Monde. 

In 185 1 family matters obliged him to return to 
France and discontinue his review. 

In 1854 the death of his father-in-law brought him 
back to America, where he settled permanently, devot- 
ing himself again to literary work in connection with the 
French newspaper, the Courrier des Etats Unis. 

When the war broke out Regis de Trobriand was deeply 
impressed by the justice of the Union cause, and, becom- 
ing an American citizen, took command of the Fifty- 
fifth Regiment New York Volunteers (Gardes LaFay- 
ette). He was engaged in all the campaigns of the 
Army of the Potomac, from Yorktown to and after 
Gettysburg. His services on the second day at Gettys- 
burg were of the most efficient and sturdy description, 
his brigade being one of those holding the Peach Orch- 
ard, the central point of Sickles's line, until it was no 
longer tenable, after which, with only two regiments, he 
held the north bank of Plum River until the rebel onset 
forced his men back across the wheat field, and then 
they were foremost in the new line formed by Birney, 
which charged through the wheat field and drove the 
enemy back to the stone fence which bounded it. It 
was one of the most exciting and important contests of 
that battlefield. In January, 1864, de Trobriand was- 

224 



DE TROBRIAND'S ROMANTIC LIFE 

made a Brigadier General, and in May and June of that 
year, he commanded the defenses of New York. He 
returned to the field, and, as brigade commander in the 
Second Corps in Grant's army, fought at Deep Bottom 
and Five Forks, and was in command of the Third 
Division of the Second Corps in the final pursuit of Lee, 
which ended at Appomattox. On the day of Lee's 
surrender (April 9, 1865), he was brevetted Major Gen- 
eral of Volunteers, thus being the only Frenchman, 
excepting LaFayette, who has held the rank of Major- 
General in the United States army. 

After the army was disbanded General de Trobriand 
spent a year in France writing (in French) his reminis- 
cences of the War, which were published under the title of 
"Quatre Ans de Campagne avec l'Armee du Potomac" 
(which has been translated under the title "Four Years 
with the Army of the Potomac "). 

General de Trobriand entered the regular army as 
Colonel of the Thirty-first Infantry in 1866, and was 
brevetted Brigadier-General of the United States army 
March 2, 1867. He commanded the District of Dakota 
in August of that year. He was transferred to the com- 
mand of the Thirteenth Infantry March 15, 1869, and 
commanded the District of Montana, and after that the 
District of Green River. 

While in Montana he put an end (January, 1870) to 
the Indian depredations by his energetic campaign 
against the Piegan Indians. He was sent to Salt Lake 
City in September, 1870, and by his firmness and tact 
prevented the threatened outbreak of the Mormons 
under Brigham Young. He commanded in Utah until 
January, 1875, when he was sent to New Orleans. 

225 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

Under orders from his superior officers it became neces- 
sary to arrest Speaker Wiltz, and to disperse the Mc- 
Enery Legislature. This duty he performed with a tact 
and firmness which won him the respect of his oppo- 
nents. General de Trobriand remained in command in 
New Orleans from 1875 to 1879, when, at his own 
request, he was retired from the army. In 1874 he had 
inherited the title of Count, and became head of his 
family, owing to the extinction of the elder branch, but 
he never carried his title in this country. Having lived 
for five years in New Orleans, General de Trobriand 
decided to make it his winter home, and, after his retire- 
ment, bought a house in Clouet Street, where he resided 
until 1897. In Summer he visited alternately his 
family in France and his daughter on Long Island. 

His visits to France were made interesting by meet- 
ing, on intimate terms, most of the statesmen, and most 
of the men of rank and mark who have been identified 
with the history of that country. 

He was a regular visitor at the Chateau d'Eu before 
the Comte de Paris was sent into exile, and after that 
time, when they could not meet, they corresponded reg- 
ularly. The Comte de Paris always loved him very 
much. All the members of the Orleanist family, the 
Due d'Aumale, the Princess de Joinville, the Due de 
Montpensier, etc., showed the General marked kindness 
and friendship, and he was received by them in the 
intimacy of the family circle, though having become 
converted to republican ideas he never hesitated to 
express his convictions. General de Trobriand 's ac- 
complishments as writer, poet, painter, and musician, 
fitted him for the power of criticism and the enjoyment 

226 



DE TROBRIAND'S ROMANTIC LIFE 

of the society of all men of all callings. This, united 
with a wonderful memory, great conversational powers, 
and delightful charm of manner, together with the fact 
that in his varied career as courtier, soldier, writer, he 
had known all the distinguished men of his time, gave 
him reminiscences of royalties, statesmen, artists, lit- 
terateurs, soldiers, in Europe and America — all this 
helped to make him, to the last moment of his long life, 
a most delightful companion to those who came in con- 
tact with him. He preserved his wonderful powers to 
the last, and died in his eighty-second year, still in the 
full possession of his brilliant mental faculties. 

General de Trobriand died on July 15th, at the resi- 
dence of his daughter, Mrs. Charles A. Post, Bayport, 
L.I. He leaves a widow — the Comtesse de Trobriand, 
who lives in Paris, and two daughters, Mrs. Charles A. 
Post and Mrs. Burnett Stears. The last-named resides 
in France. 

General de Trobriand, who offered his sword to his 
adopted country, the United States of North America, 
was a second cousin of Bolivar, the Washington of South 
America ; their grandmothers were sisters. 

Such was the man who lighted up that period in 
society from the early " fifties," when I first knew it, in 
New York, and for thirty years after, he was an occa- 
sional resident of this city. He was very handsome, but 
singularly retiring, and always marked by a modest self- 
effacement. Married as he was, into the richest and 
most fashionable set in New York, his wife a leader of 
the gay set, he could not remain in obscurity, but his 
early experiences at the Court and the retirement and 
misfortunes of the royal family, whom he had served, 

227 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

had marked him with a gravity and sadness which made 
him seem older than he was. But a more delightful 
companion at a little dinner could not be found. I 
remember his telling me of the baptism of his little 
daughter, the goddaughter of the Duchesse de Berri 
(whom he considered the Queen of France), and after- 
ward her being tossed up in the arms of the Duchesse 
d'Angouleme (the Orphan of the Temple), when the 
little girl, not respecting gloomy traditions, pulled off 
the cap and wig of the daughter of Louis XVI, making 
her laugh heartily, a thing she seldom did, poor, unfor- 
tunate daughter of Marie Antoinette. 

But the young couple whom he served (Count and 
Countess de Chambord, later Henri Cinq), were not 
the only acquaintances of whom de Trobriand could 
talk. He knew well the Republican leaders, Thiers, 
Jules Simon, Jules Favre, Guizot, Lamartine, etc. He 
had met Chateaubriand and Mme. Recamier, who spoke 
of him as "ce charmant jeune homme." He knew well 
the great litterateurs, George Sand and Alfred de Mus- 
set; he could tell the intimate history of "Elle et Lui." 
He knew Rachel, and kept many of her letters. As a 
cultivated musician himself, he knew Lizst, Chopin, 
Auber, and their best interpreters. Imagine what it was 
to hear such a man talk. 

While he was editor of the Courrier des Etats 
Unis he translated a little poem of mine into French 
verse. It was called ''The Lighthouses of the World," 
and attracted the attention of Victor Hugo, who wrote 
a letter on the subject. Although "lighthouse" is not 
a. very easy word to versify he had the advantage of the 
more poetical "Pharos," and he was so much the master 

22S 



DE TROBRIAND'S ROMANTIC LIFE 

of the genius of the two languages that he made a pretty- 
thing of it. In fact, in America he devoted himself to 
literature, to the arts, to the quiet amusements of chess, 
more than to dancing and to dinners. 

But a hero was slumbering within him, impatient for 
development. He was as brave as his sword, and longed 
to draw it in a congenial cause. From the first he 
showed that he was a born soldier. His camp was a 
model of neatness and order. The "Fifty-fifth Regi- 
ment New York Volunteers, Gardes LaFayette, " be- 
came a famous, well-disciplined regiment. I have heard 
a young lieutenant who served under him say that the 
General taught them to make an excellent cup of coffee, 
to husband their rations, to keep their quarters clean. 
He gave them excellent lessons in sanitary reform. 
The pupil of the Marshals of France, educated in what 
was then the grandest military school in the world, knew 
all these minor details. He was kind to them in sick- 
ness, and knew more than most surgeons as to the treat- 
ment of a gunshot wound. 

Such was the man, so universal, so gallant, so pains- 
taking, and conscientious, who was to take the oriflamme 
of France, under the Stars and Stripes, to victory at 
Yorktown, at Gettysburg, at Five Forks, until on the 
great day at Appomattox Court House, this second La- 
Fayette ended his service in the field to his adopted and 
grateful country. 

I had the honor to be a guest at a banquet, one of 
the most brilliant I remember in New York, at Delmon- 
ico's, to the Comte de Paris, given by General Sickles, at 
which were present, among other representatives of our 
highest fashion, Mrs. Post, the daughter of General de 

229 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

Trobriand, who could not himself be there. She was the 
very " Marie Carolina," the goddaughter of a Princess of 
the old Bourbon days, and she had the pleasure of hearing 
General Sickles refer to that brilliant action of her father 
at the Peach Orchard episode, the second day of Gettys- 
burg. This splendid dash made Trobriand a Briga- 
dier-General, and in the curious twists and turnings of 
life this was certainly one of the most curious, that in 
the presence of the last of the Bourbons — that family 
whom her father had so gallantly served — a woman, still 
young, should have listened again to the story of his 
conquests on a second field of honor from one of our 
most gallant commanders, in the War of the Republic, in 
the very presence of the Comte de Paris, the King of his 
heart. 

The old age of this valuable, accomplished, universal 
man was spent in the congenial French town, which he 
loved, New Orleans, where* in the gentle occupation of 
cultivating roses, and with the society of a few friends, 
with French servants to cook for him the dainty dishes 
which he liked, he grew older and older, as a French 
soldier should, getting something out of every day, con- 
soled by music, painting, and reading. He had fought 
the good fight ; he had written his book (a valuable one) ; 
he had kept his honor bright; to the last the most 
agreeable of men, he was blessed in the moment of 
departure by the tender care of his daughter, whom he 
dearly loved, the little girl who had been sent to him in 
his bright youth, and who never failed him in the loving 
duty and admiration, care and respect, which he so 
well deserved. 



230 



General Scott and West Point 

Henry James, in his inimitable manner, speaks of the 
"private emotions of the historic sense." 

My private historical emotions are all very strong at 
West Point. I was here many Summers before and after 
the War, before fashion had deserted it as a watering- 
place. 

Grim-visaged war has never reared its awful front in 
a more enchanting region than this, and, although never 
before has West Point, as a military school, been in a 
greater state of perfection than it is now, there is not the 
same flutter of ribbons and fine gowns which once made 
"the evening parade" a "reunion" of the best people of 
society, as it was also the most charming and dangerous 
battle-ground of the young female heart. As one of the 
prettiest belles of New York once exclaimed, "There is 
no such tremendous compliment as to have fine young 
Cadet Captains walk forward to greet you after evening 
parade." 

Music was added to the charms of soldier, sunset, and 
scenery. Then the old band, under Apelles, a first-rate 
Reader, had sixty pieces. It was a most excellent band. 
Now the thirty pieces allowed by an economical, pater- 
nal Government, which gives out $150,000,000 as pen- 
sion money to those who do not need it, and economizes 
on the West Point band, is but a feeble reminder of the 

231 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

old-time clangor and military thrill of that once remark- 
able association. There should be a good band at West 
Point to cheer the dull Winter for these patient, hard- 
working boys and music also adds the last emotional 
charm to the hearts of the softer sex. 

Is it possible that the softer sex has disappeared into 
the new woman? Has the West Point button, that 
symbol of valor, gone down before the bicycle, the golf 
tools, etc., and the "right of woman" to the ballot? No 
one now writes novels with such titles as "Cupid in 
Shoulder Straps." Indeed, the new woman may be 
said to wear shoulder straps herself, and Cupid himself, 
might be confused did he try to discriminate the out- 
lines of the masco-feminine shirt collar and cravat as 
differing from the feminine. 

But a-many years ago the cadet was a creature to 
adore; and the young Lieutenant and the Captain, what 
was he not? Let Memory try to answer. 

West Point was for the last ten years of his life the 
Summer home of General Scott, the grand hero of the 
Mexican War. He wore always his old military coat on 
the Fourth of July, the one in which he rode into Mex- 
ico "on top of a panic," as he used to say. 

"Very shabby old coat, Madame, very shabby old 
coat," the gratified old man would exclaim, as he felt 
a lady's hand laid gently on his arm, as she asked to 
touch the sacred cloth. He wore the coat on many 
historic days, and was pleased to shoulder his cane and 
fight his battles o'er again. He was a good Shakes- 
pearean scholar, and liked to correct his young officers if 
they missed a word in their quotations. General Cul- 
lom, himself an apt scholar, used to delight in tripping 

232 



GENERAL SCOTT AND WEST POINT 

up the General, if that were possible, and succeeded 
once in the famous " My kingdom for a horse, " which 
proved to have been written by Garrick, so the commen- 
tators say. 

General Scott always lived at Cranston's — then, as 
now, the most desirable locality for a hotel in the State 
of New York, not alone for its beauty, but its health- 
giving air. How many times have I stood on that 
piazza, looking down the Hudson, as the giant General 
(he was six feet six inches) has pointed out the innumer- 
able historical spots. He would tell the story of 
Arnold's treason, and point out every inch where he 
must have stood. It was he who said that "Mrs. 
Arnold clung like ivy to a worthless thing,'* referring to 
her devotion to the traitor. 

In fact, General Scott's conversation was well worth 
noting down. Somewhat grandiloquent by nature, very 
full of himself, General Scott's "hasty plate of soup," 
which won him the sobriquet of "Marshal Tureen" and 
the absurd name of "Old Fuss and Feathers," which 
was given him before his defeat for the Presidency, 
only marked that temporary disdain for his high quali- 
ties as a man, a soldier, and a scholar which posterity 
has already accorded to him. Brave as his sword, 
General Scott had the probity and the patriotism of an 
old Roman. 

A military funeral is always a grand sight at West 
Point, and what a glorious day was that which saw him 
laid to rest! 

The drives about West Point are endless and most 
interesting. From Cranston's it is but a short drive to 
Fort Montgomery, most beautiful during the change- 

233 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

ful hues of the American Autumn. Those who like to 
rise early can walk to Fort Putnam, on the pinnacle of 
Mount Independence, nearly five hundred feet above 
the river. The person who cares for flowers rather than 
for fortifications can drive through the beautiful gar- 
dens of Mr. J. Pierpont Morgan's country-seat, and see 
also his dear doggies, the best kennels in the country, 
and, as the sun looks westward the visitor can drive 
through the woods of Eagle Mountain to the Point, to 
watch the evening parade. As the last rays of the King 
of Day leave Bear Hill and the Sugar Loaf out come 
those superb young fellows, the cadets. The proof of 
what discipline can do — two hundred marching as one 
man. Sitting down on a bench in front of the 
Superintendent's quarters, I watch the evening parade, 
invoking again the "private emotions of the his- 
toric sense," and recall what I have seen on this very 
plain. In the late fifties "the three handsome cadets," 
as they were called then, were Jerome Bonaparte, 
Lawrence Williams, and G. W. P. C. Lee, son to the 
great General of the Southern Confederacy. General 
Lee was then the Superintendent, and one of the hand- 
somest men in the world. A studious young fellow 
named George B. McClellan had gained great fame as a 
scholar, and in those years, somewhere down in the 
ranks, was a plain boy named Grant. I suppose over 
his head the genius of the future was holding the laurel, 
but we did not see it then. 

Over which youthful head, 

O Goddess ! watchest thou? 
Inspire each manly heart, 

Record each faithful vow. 

234 



GENERAL SCOTT AND WEST POINT 

Later on I was to know a handsome cadet, known as 
Alexander S. Webb, now a grave General, with a scar 
which tells an honorable story. Fitz John Porter, a 
very splendid officer, always spick and span, led his 
young students to the flying artillery. Major Clitz was 
another fine officer and very favorable beau. The echo 
is endless. 

D'Oremieulx, an extremely accomplished French 
gentleman, was Professor of French. Mahan, famous 
father of a more famous son, was the companion of 
Bartlett, and Church, Davies, Aguel, Kendrick, Cullom, 
French — I cannot remember half of them. The dreadful 
story of the War comes in and confuses my dates. 

But after many years, when I had "waked from 
a long sleep of many changing dreams," I came again to 
West Point, to see this same illustrious board go from 
their seats, before which august tribunal so many gray 
jackets had "quaked," to greet Ulysses S. Grant, their 
whilom, not too studious scholar, but whose golden 
heart and rugged courage and patient brain had saved 
his country. It was glorious! 

The evening gun dispels all these dreams. The 
young Captain says to the officer of the day, as he 
marches forward, "Sir, the parade is formed." Then a 
little later comes that moment when the young belles' 
hearts begin to flutter. 

I drive off to look at old Cro' Nest from beautiful 
Cragside. As General Morris wrote : 

Where Hudson's waves through silvery sands 

Wind through the hills afar, 
And Cro' Nest like a monarch stands 

Crowned with a silver star. 

235 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

Here an elegant hospitality has reigned for thirty 
years. From these portals went forth two noble boys 
to offer their lives to their country. Here has come the 
thought, the wit of Gouverneur Kemble, of Paulding, of 
George P. Morris, of Willis — of almost every officer and 
graduate of West Point ; and now a retired soldier, after 
honorable record, is spending here, in delightful security 
and happiness, the "early evening of industrious days." 
There is an anachronism, however. What is that light 
which streams up into old Cro' Nest? The flashlight of 
that great steamer, the " Adirondack," sends its intrusive 
glare into the home and haunts of the "Culprit Fay" 
and brings the secret down to Cragside. 

Ouf and goblin ! imp and sprite, 

Elf of eve and starry fay ; 
Ye that love the morn's soft light, 

Hither, hither wend your way ! 
Twine ye in a jocund ring, 

Sing and trip it merrily, 
Hand to hand, and wing to wing, 

Round the wild witchhazel tree. 

This perfect classic was written on the opposite shore 
from Cragside by Joseph Rodman Drake, during a ram- 
ble in the Highlands, in answer to a challenge of Hal- 
leck, that no poem could be written without a human 
love story entwined in its meshes, but Drake won the bet. 
Undercliff, the seat of George P. Morris, was near 
neighbor to Cragside, and is now included in its grounds. 
General Morris had a martial soul behind his soft Pan's 
pipes, and we hear the shrill fife and the spirit-stirring 
drum resounding through his delicate and beautiful 
verses. They are consonant to West Point, and its 
memories. 

236 



GENERAL SCOTT AND WEST POINT 

George P. Morris was a favorite with all who knew 
him. Once Fitz-Greene Halleck called upon me in New 
York, in his old age, and I asked him to define for me 
"what was poetry and what was prose." Said he: 
"When General Morris commands his brigade, and says 
'Soldiers, draw your swords,' he talks prose. When he 
says 'Soldiers, draw your willing swords,' he talks 
poetry." I thought it a very neat definition. 

The magnificent cleft of the Hudson through these 
historic mountains, the high plain of West Point, is 
known to everybody — at least it should be. General 
Scott said that there was no such view in the world. 
The fine public academic buildings, the beautifully 
shaded homes of officers and professors, the statues of 
the brave officers who fell in the War, the natural beau- 
ties of Flirtation Walk (here the historic sense becomes 
confused), the inscriptions cut in the rocks — "sermons 
in stones"; the interesting monument to Kosciusko, that 
brave Pole, the real Thaddeus of Warsaw to us, "And 
Freedom shrieked when Kosciusko fell;" the view 
across the river — the old Beverly House, from which 
Arnold escaped to the "Vulture" — all, all, is familiar, 
yet forever new, and always beautiful. 

Around on the neighboring heights across the river 
one sees the deserted house of the late distinguished 
statesman, Hamilton Fish ; the house of Samuel Sloan 
and other rich residents, the beautiful estate and fine 
grounds of the widow of Judge Pierpont, eminent jurist 
and Minister to England. Here lie the remains of their 
young son who died in Rome in 1885, in the flower of 
his youth, full of promise and of goodness. I knew him 
well, and received at his hands much kindness in the 

237 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

Winter which I spent in Rome, the last of his dear 
young life. He was taken with the fever late in the 
winter and died six weeks after. I happened to come 
north with Mr. and Mrs. W. W. Astor, and at every 
station Mr. Astor stopped to get telegrams of the state 
of health of "Eddy" Pierpont. Alas! When we 
reached Turin they were fearfully sad. 

So this becomes now one of the historic memories. 

"So much of hope, so much of heartbreak," has al- 
ways been associated with West Point since the War. 
Spending every June here for many years, I grew to 
know the officers who fought on both sides in our Civil 
War. It was to me the bulletin of sorrow or of joy, 
as I read the daily papers of those dismal years, and as I 
listen to the band at evening parade its most joyous 
notes become a requiem as I recall the early dead, the 
brave and generous youth who so smilingly accepted the 
order from headquarters to give up life and love for home 
and country. 

" Onward, Christian soldiers ! 
Marching as to war." 

The notes of the "Star Spangled Banner" sounding 
over our heads, like the silver trumpets of the angels, 
fill my heart anew with a noble thrill and a sorrow which 
is akin to the highest joy. 



238 



Reminiscences of N. P. Willis 

" There is something in a deep crimson rose which 
makes me happy. I love all roses, but I am sensible of 
a singular exaltation of all my senses when I look into a 
deep red one. I think of old George Herbert's line: 

" O rose 
Whose hue, angry and brave, 
Makes the rash gazer wipe his eye." 

Thus wrote N. P. Willis to me in the Summer of 
1858, and this beautiful excerpt shows how refined and 
how delicate were his taste and his expressions. 

Now that the anecdotes of him are in the air, I 
remember that I am one of the few people living who 
knew him and of him in his prime, that I really can 
throw more light, perhaps, upon a character so strangely 
misjudged by some of those who lived by him and with 
him, and so unfairly recorded by those who came after 
him, than any one now living. 

It is not strange that those who saw Willis superfi- 
cially considered him only a dandy and a trifler, for he 
was a dandy. He belonged to that age and that imme- 
diate phase of civilization which cropped out in England 
after George IV had made all the men in love with 
small waists and flowing neckgear. Lord Lamington 
has put them before us in the "Days of the Dandies." 

The Prince of all these was Count d'Orsay, a man of 

239 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

genius, whose sculpture would have won him fame (even 
if his clothes had not), but who had that singular prefer- 
ence for the title of a King of Fashion to that of man 
of genius, and who for twenty years set the fashion in 
London as to a hat or an equipage, which had been 
done as to waistcoats and neckties by poor Brummell 
before him. 

When Willis, the son of a Boston clergyman, poor 
and struggling, went to England on a very small, precar- 
ious income, he was most accidentally and wonderfully 
introduced to this set, presided over then by the beauti- 
ful Countess of Blessington. It was a supremely lucky 
incident for the editor of a struggling newspaper, but an 
unlucky one for that sterner style demanded by his 
countrymen, who did not know how much this man was 
to do for the refinement of manners, letters, and arts in 
the then chaotic society of the United States. 

I remember well the intense interest with which his 
book, "Pencilings by the Way," was greeted in country 
neighborhoods, and it is, by the way, now most charm- 
ing reading. 

Looking back, as I had the privilege of doing last Sum- 
mer, in the library of a friend, to the many novels, jour- 
nals, and literary labors of the Countess of Blessington, 
I felt that I was reading a sort of apology for what was 
considered weak, affected, and perhaps sentimental, in 
the writings of one of the most industrious, and certainly 
one of the most gifted, of our earlier journalists. 

Willis had to contend with poverty, and, with the wolf 
at the door all his early life, perhaps it was never very far 
away. 

His " Letters from Under a Bridge" are perfect 

240 



REMINISCENCES OF N. P. WILLIS 

idyls; his love of country life most sincerely respectable; 
his economy and sobriety and patient industry most 
commendable; and yet a certain dainty attention to 
dress, and a certain expression to which his cloud of fair 
curling hair lent a suggestion of foppishness, brought 
down upon him always the half ridicule of the people, 
the public for which he worked so hard. 

Had he looked like Dr. Holmes or like Longfellow; 
had he gone carelessly dressed ; had he had the impress- 
ive face of Parke Godwin, — his great talents would have 
brought him much more fame, and would have entitled 
him to the respect which we now most elaborately give 
to the man who showed a heroic and undoubted power 
of work and an enviable gift of expression. 

But a dainty fellow with pink cheeks and golden hair, 
with rather a fat face, with the latest London cut as to 
clothes, was always at a disadvantage in those earlier 
and hard-working days from 1838 to 1850. 

He had known also the disadvantages which men 
could never forgive him — he was very interesting to 
women. Something of Byron's fascination attended 
him, and the man who could write such vers de society as 
he could, and at the same time write religious poetry, 
and the very beautiful little sad verses on the grave of a 
child- 
Room, gentle flowers ! 
My child would pass to heaven, — 

a thing not inferior in pathos to Hood's 

We watched her breathing through the night, 

Her breathing soft and low, 
As in her breast the wave of life 

Kept beating to and fro — 

241 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

such a man, of course, had the open sesame to the 
female heart. 

And then he made us the confidants of his love for 
Mary, his young English wife, whom he so imprudently 
married, and for whom Glen Mary was named, from 
which he wrote his " Letters from Under a Bridge," and 
more exquisite letters were never written anywhere — all 
this made Willis the adored of the sentimental young 
lady. He received all the callow poems, the gooseflesh 
first musings, the green apple stories of first love, which 
the maidens who wore long curls dangling down in front 
of their ears, were writing then. 

George Eliot makes her Theophrastus Such say: 
"At that time I was dancing a hornpipe, in which I 
appeared very badly. What sort of a hornpipe am I 
dancing now?" If we could all transplant our past 
into our present, and see how much less we think 
of our performances now, well it would weed out our 
follies ! 

Well, my verses (my early hornpipe), written behind 
those drooping black curls which were fashionable then, 
were sent to Willis, and they were sent back again, with 
a most hopeful and consolatory note. He thought they 
had much feeling, great good taste, promise, etc., and 
his regrets, etc. — how well I learned that formula later! 
With a generosity most admirable, he asked me to send 
him something else. I proudly returned him a criticism on 
"Jane Eyre," which had been accepted by The Tribune. 
That he did like and commend and copy, and praised 
loudly. So I kept on sending many things, to the great 
advantage of the United States mail, which was the only 
thing which derived any benefit from most of that im- 

242 



REMINISCENCES OF N. P. WILLIS 

mature versification, but the kindness, the good advice, 
was never wanting from Willis. 

About this time he took a great interest in Emily 
Chubbuck (dreadful name), and published her letters 
under the pseudonym of " Fanny Forester." They were 
weak and foolish we all thought (we who had been 
rejected). She married Dr. Judson, the missionary, 
and wrote a beautiful poem to her first-born, 

Ere last year's moon had left the sky, 
A birdling sought my Indian nest, 

And folded, O ! so lovingly, 

Her little wings upon my breast ; 

and then she died, poor thing, and we found out that 
she had genius, and that Willis had not been mistaken. 

This popular and famous man was severely judged by 
the public for his attentions to Mrs. Forrest, the di- 
vorced wife of the actor; and strangely enough, I have a 
note written at the time of the trial, in which he excuses 
himself from calling on me at that epoch because he 
is engaged in defending "one less fortunate and less 
beautiful." 

It is a chivalrous note and does him honor; it would 
do me much honor, only that he had never seen me, 
then. I had corresponded with him as authors do with 
editors, but staying with some friends in New York I 
was anxious to see the man who had by this time been 
kind to some of my written efforts. I had asked him to 
call on me. He was standing very low in public opinion 
just then, but he was found to be guiltless, and he rose 
perhaps several degrees in public opinion afterward, as 
did the Prince of Wales from a similar case. 

I never saw him until long afterward in New York, 

243 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

when I had been married several years. I met him at 
a breakfast given to Willis by Mr. Ruggles, at which 
Henry T. Tuckerman and Dr. Bellows were present. 

Mary was long since dead, and he had been married 
several years to the excellent woman who proved such a 
peerless wife to him, at Idlewild. It was no longer the 
young dandy, the echo, however remotely, of Count 
d'Orsay, but a grave and slender invalid, coughing 
behind his hand. The voluminous hair hung about his 
cheeks, which now had a painful hectic hue ; but he was 
handsome and interesting still, and his conversation was 
charming. I remember that Dr. Bellows had just writ- 
ten his defense of actors, and Willis said, with some 
feeling: 

"Poor Prynne, in the time of Charles I, lost his ears, 
and his nose was slit because he abused actors and plays 
and Maypoles and dancing. The gay Court had him 
flogged and made him die a terrible death. Now you 
and I will be martyred because we do not abuse actors, 
but think there is some good in them, they can say, with 
Shylock, 'Hath not a Jew flesh?' " 

After this breakfast, at which, as Mr. Willis said, "he 
and I had broken a long fast and at last had met in the 
flesh," I saw much of him at Mrs. Botta's, whose very 
dear friend he was, and I heard from him how much he 
felt the abuse of the public and the coldness of his sis- 
ter, Fanny Fern. She pilloried him in a satirical novel, 
angry because he would not publish her letters in The 
Home Journal. He was a man of strong domestic 
affections, and dearly loved his admirable brother, Rich- 
ard Storrs Willis, who had much of the genius and none 
of the eccentricities of this gifted family. 

244 



REMINISCENCES OF N. P. WILLIS 

I was present at many dinners when Willis was the 
life of the company, and, although I did not hear the 
famous repartee of the Washington dinner so often 
recorded, I will record it here. It was Mrs. Gales, I 
think, who at one of her own dinners wrote on a card to 
her niece at the other end of the table: "Do n't flirt so 
with Nat Willis." She was talking vivaciously herself 
to Mr. Campbell. Willis replied: 

" Dear aunt, do n't attempt my young feelings to trammel, 
Nor strain at a Nat while you swallow a Campbell" — 

probably the quickest-witted couplet on record. That a 
man could turn over a card at a dinner and remember a 
text so appropriate was wonderful, and the having a pen- 
cil with him (being an author), was still more wonderful. 

I once heard him quote with preternatural quickness 
— perhaps this, too, was original — these lines: 

A lady was complaining to him of her wrinkles. He 
immediately improvised the following: 

" Oh, talk not to me of the charms of youth's dimples ; 
There's more sentiment centred in ladylike wrinkles. 
They're the triumph of Time, which marks Beauty's decay, 
Writing lines to the charms which could not fade away." 

Now, if Winthrop Praed had written that, all London 
would have been on fire, and have quoted it still. Willis 
had the true Italian gift of the improvisatore and the 
French facility for ' ' vers de socie'te'. ' ' 

Willis was born a century too early for himself. He 
had the Amphytrion spirit of Ward McAllister. He 
had the sense of coming luxury, a pamphlet of his, 
written fifty years ago, perfectly foretells the present 
state of New York society, then undreamed of. 

His attraction as a talker was perfect. His respect 

245 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

for others, his ready outpouring of his own surplus for 
the duller intellects about him, the great stores of recol- 
lections which he had to fall back upon, all made him, 
either on his piazza at Idlewild or at a friend's table, the 
most agreeable of men. 

He had head Tommy Moore sing "Take Hence the 
Bowl, Though Beaming." He had awaited his turn to 
kiss Lady Blessington's hand after the little poet; he 
had hobnobbed with that select company of wits and 
beaus and belles so noted in the last memoirs of Greville 
and of Henry Crabbe Robinson ; he had returned to our 
shores when they were dreary enough, and he had 
sought to bring with him something of the elegance of 
that old world, which he so loved. He had only half 
succeeded, and yet he bravely struggled on. Now it is 
left for us to discover that there was much that was refined, 
and absolutely nothing that was pernicious, in the flood 
of daily literature which he poured out. Since he is 
gone we learn that no one did him half justice. 

Willis occasionally rose to an immortal height. When 
General Harrison died, in 1841, after being President 
one month, Willis wrote 

*' What ! soared the old eagle to die in the sun ? " — 

- — one of the most vigorous and impassioned lyrics in 
all our American poetry, all the grief and disappoint- 
ment of the American heart was in it. A terrible grief 
was the death of General Harrison, the first, to that 
great Whig heart which had hoped for him so long. 

I met Willis at Washington in 1862, at the tremen- 
dously trying moment when McClellan was in command 
of Washington as a camp. He was there, I believe, 

246 



REMINISCENCES OF N. P. WILLIS 

writing war letters. I heard that he was a great favorite 
at the White House, enjoying the gay company very 
much. To show the versatility of the man, I heard him 
offer, as there was lack of hairdressers for the great 
McClellan ball, to dress the hair of two ladies. He 
said, when in London, he had learned to dress his wife's 
hair to save the expense, and that he still retained the 
facility. So they, rather in joke, allowed him to do it. 
He took off his coat, pinned a towel around his waist, 
and combed and curled, talking gayly and well all the 
time. Perhaps there was lack of dignity in this. Per- 
haps he had not a great deal of dignity. 

If he had been more of a Turveydrop he would have 
enjoyed a higher place in the consideration of his coun- 
trymen. 

But he was greatly grieved, as we all were, when the 
news reached the National Hotel that poor little Tad, 
the President's child, had died that day. A ball was 
going on when Colonel Hudson brought the news. 

Many of us left the gay scene, and Willis walked 
with me to my parlor. 

''Why do you not write an immortal poem?" I 
asked. ''You once wrote a poem on a death at the 
White House. Here is another, a sadder, domestic note 
of woe; put it in the Jeweled Chalice of your verse." 
(Willis once wrote a poem called "The Jeweled Chalice" 
and gave it to me.) 

"No, " said he. "I no longer write poetry. I gave it 
up long ago. The muse has deserted me." 

He once wrote for me a most witty and delightful 
anacreontic on the manufacture of punch. I am sorry I 
have lost it, although I have many of his notes. Charles 

247 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

Astor Bristed wrote me another poetic receipt for punch, 
which I fortunately still possess. There was another 
eccentric genius, who deserves to be remembered. 

I never wrote for The Home Journal or for any of 
Mr. Willis's publications after those early days, but he 
was kind enough to make my sonnet to the memory of 
Prescott the subject of one of his most beautiful essays. 
He also wrote me a letter of praise on my translation of 
Carcassonne. We remained friends, I hope, to the end 
of his life, although I saw very little of him, but I 
believe him to have been one of the most kindly and 
honorable of men. It was, perhaps, easy to laugh at 
him, for he had peculiarities which the world is apt to 
call flippant and undignified, but at heart he was 
neither; he was an earnest worker in the fields he had 
chosen; he was an industrious and independent person. 

And could his books be republished with "Pencilings 
by the Way" as V envoi, much of that charm which 
made George William Curtis' s " Arm Chair" immortal, 
would be found in them. Willis was a sort of avant- 
coureur of that incomparable man. 



248 



Irving and his Hudson River Home 
at Sunnyside 

It does not need a bi-centennial to make Irvington 
beautiful. It is more l;ke an English park than any spot 
on the Hudson, all of which, from Riverdale to Pough- 
keepsie, has a park-like aspect. Aristocratic wealth and 
old Tory principles began this preservation of fine trees 
and pleasure grounds, and the Phillipses and Beekmans, 
Van Courtlandts and Clintons, deserve our thanks, that 
— now as we drive through bosky dells and antique 
avenues, the latter as stately as those dames who inspired 
General Washington to some stately love-making — we 
can see these unrivaled trees. 

The most historic of English parks was created to 
give Henry VIII a rural expanse in which to lounge 
away his idle hours and to hunt deer, in what is now the 
West End of London. Hyde Park remained a royal 
park, to which none but the sovereign and his gay court- 
iers were admitted, for centuries after Bluff King Hal 
had stopped cutting off his wives' heads, and the result 
is that the people have gained at last, by reason of this 
long-time royal monopoly, a wooded territory where all 
may wander at will. Kensington Gardens, contiguous 
to and forming a part of Hyde Park, are due to William 
of Orange, Queen Anne, and Queen Caroline, the ami- 

249 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

able wife of George II, who so complacently endured 
the various tastes of her horrid little King. These gar- 
dens were the favored walks of the ladies of Queen 
Anne, that stupid woman who gave her name to so much 
that was brilliant. Here came the fine old bad-tempered 
Duchess of Marlborough to rustle her brocades, while 
the wits and gossips and politicians of the Augustan age 
exchanged polished sarcasms, according to party, as to- 
day the wits and politicians who wander up and down 
through the wide shaded high roads of Irvington, or who 
hold converse at the Ardsley Casino, discuss bimetal- 
ism and the Mayor of Greater New York. Given 
the trees! That is all we want, and we will again recon- 
struct for you the past. London was fortunate in hav- 
ing many good tyrants, a power which every city needs, 
to make it clean and beautiful, to keep its lungs clear, 
and Henry VIII, by consulting his own caprice, became 
the benefactor of every cockney who now wanders 
through that lovely seclusion by the banks of the Serpen- 
tine. To George IV does the public of London owe 
that notable system of parks extending from the musty 
old Government offices in Whitehall to the suburb of 
Kensington. 

Regents Park is modern, as it was laid out in 1 8 12 
by "Florizel," George IV, who gave it to the people. 
This once embraced the famous Primrose Hill, and it is 
touched by the secluded cottages of St. John's Wood. 
From a pretty street near it George Eliot looked out on 
its undulating expanse, and just north of it resided Cole- 
ridge, Leigh Hunt, Keats, and Shelley. It is a literary 
neighborhood. It is almost reproduced in our new 
world by the smooth, broad avenues of Irvington and 

250 



IRVING AND HIS HOME 

winding paths which intersect its noble demesnes, while 
wealth and taste have thrown in those comfortable 
houses which also shelter the citizen, the poet, the poli- 
tician, and the orator. Irvington and Tarrytown are 
our Regents Park, where not alone may the tired citizen 
come to walk and drive, but where he may come to live, 
to bring his family ; and he may even import thither his 
.industries, that those "who serve him for wage" may 
breathe the pure air, and look upon the grand expanse of 
that river which has in it the capacity of a lake and on its 
shores the hillsides of the Rhine. No doubt these early 
aristocratic Tories, whom we properly disgraced and 
confiscated in 1775, had the visions of Hyde Park in 
their minds, as they saved their fine trees and bordered 
their parks with shrubbery, and built pretty bridges 
embowered in flowers and foliage. No more delightful 
walks can be taken than those around what were once 
proud old Tory mansions, where the handsome terraces 
lead down to the placid river. Those terraces, now 
so beautifully copied by the famous Ardsley Casino, 
perpetuate for us the best features of English park 
scenery. 

These picturesque and historic heights are also 
crowned with one ruin, that of Bierstadt's famous beau- 
tiful house, which commands the remarkable view that 
people traveled to his studio to look at. I remember 
paying a visit to that hospitable house with Vice-Ad- 
miral Gore Jones and his wife. He was at that time 
Naval Attache at Washington. He told me that in all 
his travels he had never seen such a river expanse, or 
anything more commanding. It is a pity that fire could 
not have spared that studio — that house so consecrated 

25 1 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

to art. We are not rich in ruins in America. Perhaps 
the artist made the best use of his in leaving them where 
they are. The distant view of Ardsley Towers is sug- 
gestive of the Rhine, while the view of that noble cleft 
in the Hudson River, looking upward, is seen from Mr. 
Villard's place as we see it who look down from West 
Point. In both instances it is one of the most serene 
of views. 

Even the sunset, that miracle of nature, gains new 
charms as it lingers with a rosy scarf fluttering in the 
western sky, like a reluctant beauty who leaves the ball- 
room with one dance still on her mind. — 

" Oh, papa ! Stay, papa ! Stay a little longer." 

Even the sunset coquets with this delicious bit of 
earth. But we travel onward toward a church ; there is 
one memory which in this wooded expanse holds royal 
monopoly. It is that of Washington Irving, the great 
and gentle genius, the humorist who wrote such English 
that we fain turn back to his well-worn pages that we 
may know of what power our noble English tongue is 
capable. 

It was my great good fortune once to drive to Sun- 
nyside to pay Mr. Irving a morning visit with the dearest 
of my friends (and one of the most valued of his), Miss 
Mary Morris Hamilton. On the drive from her father's 
house, Nevis (now I believe included in Tarrytown), 
the home of the Hon. James A. Hamilton, to Mr. 
Irving's, she told me many traits of this man, their 
old family friend, and how he drove down, when ap- 
pointed Minister to Spain, to ask her brother, Alexander 
Hamilton, to go to Spain with him. She told me of 

252 



IRVING AND HIS HOME 

his excellent nieces, who made such a home for him, and 
of his attachment to Pierre Irving, his biographer, and 
many nice anecdotes. 

We stopped, I remember, on our way at Mr. W. H. 
Aspinwall's beautiful place. Mrs. Aspinwall gave us an 
armful of greenhouse flowers, which we poured out 
before Mr. Irving as the old man gave us cordial wel- 
come. He was very fond of flowers. 

"Ah!" said he, "that is the Deity's idea of how 
things should be done! What is the use of our trying 
to do anything! Look at the perfection of one single 
flower!" And he handled them with delight. 

He told us that the day we called was one of his 
anniversaries ; that he had started fifty years before to go 
out with David Ogden to found Ogdensburg. He 
described the perils of the journey, often in oxcarts, 
through unbroken forests, but they had a gay young 
party, who did not mind bruises. "And," said he, "I 
was a youngster, and enjoyed it." 

Miss Hamilton told him that I had just come from 
Mr. Prescott's at Nahant, whereupon he spoke most 
nobly of Prescott's Spanish work. 

It was inexpressibly fine to hear from lips that had 
made Spain familiar to us all these praises of the his- 
torian of Ferdinand and Isabella. Indeed, one remem- 
bered Irving's own words on "Spanish Romance" in 
the tales of the Alhambra. 

The annals of the time teem with illustrious instances of high- 
wrought courtesy, romantic generosity, lofty disinterestedness, and 
punctilious honor that warm the very soul to read of them. 

In the present day, when popular literature is running into the 
low levels of life and luxuriating in the vices and follies of mankind, 
and when the universal pursuit of gain is trampling down the early 

253 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

growth of poetic feeling and wearing out the verdure of the soul, I 
question whether it would not be of service for the reader occasionally 
to turn to those records of prouder times and loftier modes of think- 
ing, and to steep himself to the very lips in old Spanish romance. 

No Hidalgo of them all was a more perfect incorpora- 
tion of " lofty disinterestedness" than Mr. Irving. I 
noticed that his three nieces sat listening to him as if 
they heard these silvery tones for the first time. 

When Miss Hamilton rose to go, Mr. Irving asked us 
into his den, and showed us his books, some valuable 
autographs, etc., and I ventured to ask for his. He sat 
down and wrote it for me with a funny anecdote, as I 
apologized for this tiresome request, and he assisted us 
to our carriage with all the grace of that genuine ele- 
gance which he has loved to dwell upon in his "Sketch 
Book." Indeed, he was ever a stickler for "old-fashioned 
gallantry, devoted attentions, and eternal constancy." 

He told us about his sleepless nights, saying that he 
got up and shaved himself at two o'clock at night, to try 
to break the current of his thoughts. "It is a shame," 
said he, "that youth, which has so much to enjoy, sleeps 
nine hours on a stretch and wakes up reluctantly, while 
age, which has nothing to covet but oblivion, must lie 
awake with only regrets to keep it company." 

This vineclad porch, at which I last saw Washington 
Irving standing, is now marked by a dozen gables, and 
a great, luxurious modern house expands behind and 
around it, all in perfect keeping and beautiful harmony. 
His grandnephew, Mr. Irving Duer, the present owner 
of the most renowned house in America after Mount 
Vernon, thus emblemizes in brick and mortar the 
extended mansion which has grown in the American 

254 



IRVING AND HIS HOME 

heart, for its most learned historian, its most delicious 
humorist, and its most perfect literary artist. 

In the " Author's Farewell," at the conclusion of the 
" Sketch Book," published in 1840, Irving uses these 
touching words : 

" It is my foible, however, to get on such companionable terms 
with my reader, in the course of a work, that it really costs me 
some pain to part with him, and I am apt to keep him by the hand, 
and have a few farewell words at the end of my last volume." 

And in this lovable "foible" did Washington Irving 
continue for years to pour forth his wit and wisdom, ever 
keeping his "reader by the hand," who will not yet let 
him go, but who reaches for the delicious pages when- 
ever one's busy, hard-working days will permit him to 
dream with that happy vagabond, Rip Van Winkle, 
radiant with humor and pathos, as he is (made real by 
Joseph Jefferson, God bless him!). To smile and weep 
over the " Tales of the Alhambra," to dance the " Sir 
Roger de Coverley" with the worthy Squire in Brace- 
bridge Hall, or to linger with our fascinated sense of 
perfection in the classic pages of "A Legend of Sleepy 
Hollow." Could I paint for myself a possible Utopia, 
it would be to drive all day — a Summer's day — through 
the enchanting groves of Irvington and Tarrytown, real- 
izing that exquisite description of the American Autumn ; 
to turn aside to some farmer's precincts; to watch the 
*\ gallant cock," "that pattern of a husband, a warrior, 
and a fine gentleman ;" to see "those rich fields of wheat, 
of rye, of buckwheat, and of Indian corn, and the 
orchards burdened of ruddy fruit which surrounded the 
warm tenement of Van Tassel" (notice the choice epithet 
"warm"); and after such a drive taken under the per- 

255 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

feet blue of an American sky, to dine well "on pigeons 
snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, or ducks pairing 
cozily in dishes like snug married pairs, with a decent 
competency of onion sauce;" after such a dinner to sit 
by a wood fire, while a melodious voice should read to 
me aloud the "Legend of Sleepy Hollow," slowly, in 
a drowsy undertone, lingering over each gem of humor 
and felicitous phrasing! I think I might be happy. If 
I were not, I never deserve to be, but I believe in pos- 
sible Utopias. 

To drive from Irvington to the church of Sleepy Hol- 
low was of course a pious pilgrimage. We stopped a 
moment to read the inscriptions on the facade of another 
church, to Washington Irving, "Beloved, Honored, and 
Revered," and then under those immemorial elms sped 
on our way to the church at Sleepy Hollow, made most 
renowned by his genius. He has peopled all this scene 
as Shakespeare has peopled Venice, with a group which 
never dies. Who walks the Rialto to-day but Shylock 
and Jessica, Lorenzo and Antonio and Portia? 

Who lives in Sleepy Hollow? Who holds, in mort- 
main, the acres of these millionaires? Who patrols the 
country but the headless horseman? Who blushes 
round the corner but Katrina Van Tassel? And what 
heretical disbeliever in ghosts can pass the twisted enor- 
mous tulip tree, with its gnarled fantastic limbs, except 
to hear at midnight the groans of the unlucky Andr£? 
Who bestrides the lean ribs of Gunpowder but "the 
poor, affrighted pedagogue, Ichabod Crane," the em- 
bodiment of that terror which lingers in us all, as, 
hungry and sorrowful, we encounter Life, the unknown, 
the mysterious, the disappointing? 

256 



IRVING AND HIS HOME 

The fame of this most "celebrated short story in the 
English language," as Taine calls it, has a curious cor- 
roboration in my own limited literary experience. I 
knew, in Paris, a famous translator of Poe's stories, and 
he gave me, in his eloquent French, his experience of 
trying to translate Irving's "Legend of Sleepy Hol- 
low." "I could not do it," said he; "beyond and 
above me everywhere was the untranslatable! It was 
without a parallel ; as well try to translate Dante into 
French argot." 

As for the bi-centennial at the church of Sleepy Hol- 
low, we can only say with a kindred spirit, Bryant, who 
wrote an ode for his own church at Bridgewater: 

Two hundred times has June renewed 

Her roses since that day 
When here, amid the lonely wood, 
Our fathers met to pray. 

Beside this gentle stream that strayed 

Through pathless deserts then 
The calm, heroic women prayed, 
The grave undaunted men. 

Hymns on the ancient silence broke 

From hearts that faltered not, 
And undissembling lips that spoke 

The pure and guileless thought. 

It was of such stock that our Washington Irving 
came; his genius was his own, his virtues inherited, and 
well may we quote from Bryant again : 

The plant they set, a little vine, 

Hath stretched its boughs afar 
To distant hills and streams that shine 

Beneath the Evening Star. 

257 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

The preservation of an old church in America has 
always a grand significance. This beautiful neighbor- 
hood of Irvington begins to blossom with the immortelles 
of statues and memorial stones. We see the names of 
Washington and Rochambeau, and of Sir Guy Carleton 
— important notched sticks those ; we behold the capture 
of Andre and the disgrace of Arnold — the one traitor 
whom we pin on the wall. We are pointed out this and 
that old house which our Chief honored as his head- 
quarters. It is a town of memories. It is the luxurious 
home of famous citizens, whose horses might be fed on 
golden oats. It is the suburb of a majestic city. Some 
of its enterprising citizens are ready to send millions to 
far-off Chicago to found universities, others are ready 
with open hand to found them here all over the land. 
From the silence of Sleepy Hollow one hundred years 
ago the sound of a barking dog could be heard across the 
river. To-day who shall count the shrieks, up and down 
the river, of innumerable trains? Who shall record the 
diapason of the hymn of Industry? From the Dutch 
calm of Farmer Van Tassel to the incarnate energy of 
its present inhabitants, what a flight of the gods! Is 
that great Egyptian god Kneuph, who moved over the 
face of creation, breathing life into the world, from. his 
boat which he piloted himself — is he here, the hard- 
working god? We must call him Steam to-day. For- 
tunate those who have floated into the shady avenues 
and flower-bedecked regions of the once Sleepy Hollow 
— into the church where Washington Irving worshiped 
God — those who have inherited these blissful valleys. 



258 



IRVING AND HIS HOME 

Ours are their fields, those fields that smile with Summer's latest 

flowers; 
Oh, let their fearless scorn of guile, their love of truth, be ours ! 

It is astonishing, as we turn back in the pages of 
Irving' s own fascinating work, to read anew the very 
sensible essay "On English Writers on America." It 
might well be spoken to-day: 

Why are we so exquisitely alive to the aspersions of England ? 
Why do we suffer ourselves to be so affected by the contumely she 
has endeavored to cast upon us ? It is not in the opinion of England 
alone that honor lives and reputation has its being. The world at 
large is the arbiter of a nation's fame; with its thousand eyes it wit- 
nesses a nation's deeds, and from their collective testimony is National 
glory or National disgrace established. 

For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but little import- 
ance whether England does us justice or not ; it is perhaps of far 
more importance to herself. She is instilling anger and resentment 
into the bosom of a youthful nation, to grow with its growth and 
strengthen with its strength. If in America, as some of her writers 
are laboring to convince her, she is hereafter to find an invidious 
rival and a gigantic foe, she may thank those very writers for having 
provoked rivalship and irritated hostility. Every one knows the all- 
pervading influence of literature at the present day, and how much 
the opinions and passions of mankind are under its control. The 
mere contests of the sword are temporary, their wounds are but in 
the flesh, and it is the pride of the generous to forget and forgive 
them, but the slanders of the pen pierce to the heart, they rankle 
longest in the noblest spirits, they dwell ever present in the mind, 
and make it morbidly sensitive to the most trifling collision. 

And so on through the whole of this most noble 
paper we read how wise, and how judicious and how all- 
round, was Irving's mind. It was the more wonder- 
ful because he was a natural-born funny man, whose 
tendency, like that of Charles Lamb, leaned to quip and 
quirk and the fantastic view of things, whose philoso- 
phy was bounded by a laugh. That he could have had 

259 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

the calm philosophy to write such a paper as this, and 
to rise to the dignity of "The Life of Washington," is 
most astonishing. 

Pleasant reading to-day, is his "Life of Goldsmith." 
With the clairvoyance of genius, Irving saw all the short- 
comings and absurdities of the man of many gifts, all 
of which he was to escape himself, for Irving seems to 
have had no weaknesses — a strange thing to say of so 
loveable a man! But he had a tender spot in his heart 
for poor Noll, and one can but believe that Irving 
enjoyed writing that biography, with its old-fashioned 
epigrams and the retorts of Johnson and Mrs. Thrale, 
Garrick and Beattie. The "Philosophic Vagabond" 
who could write "The Vicar of Wakefield" and "She 
Stoops to Conquer" pleased Irving, who was a well-reg- 
ulated old bachelor, always well dressed, and who always 
paid his debts. There is something very dear to us in 
our opposites. 

How much to be envied are those who recently 
attended the bi-centennial of the church of Sleepy Hol- 
low and who have before them the pleasure of reading 
the works of Washington Irving for the first time ! It is 
the privilege of the young to open "The Sketch Book," 
the "Tales of the Alhambra," and the "Life of Wash- 
ington;" to read "The Conquest of Granada," that 
most romantic of histories ; to linger over the fascinating 
"Life of Mohammed," more like what a three-volume 
novel ought to be than anything we have from the sen- 
sational press, its only drawback being that it is all true. 
How we envy them, these travelers to an old, ever-new 
Klondike, where, without cold or hunger or hope deferred, 
they may pick up nuggets of gold and enter into the 

260 



IRVING AND HIS HOME 

fairyland of a mind which was as sweet and wholesome 
as the gardens of Sunny Side, with a sweep as noble as 
that of the broad river which bathes its banks, that 
Hudson River which Irving loved. "It is an honest 
river," he says of it, "with no quicksands or hidden 
rocks." 



26x 



Dinners with George Bancroft 

Before the war — 1856, 1859, i860, and so on — I 
used to dine very often with Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft, at 
their delightful villa in Newport, which was always the 
scene of an elegant and quiet hospitality. I now recall 
(with the aid of my little book) one dinner at which 
Mme. de Limburg (Belle Cass), the daughter of General 
Cass, was present. And she was very brilliant that 
day. Mr. Bancroft called her "Belle," and they began 
to talk about the coming in of anti-slavery ideas, which 
neither of them enjoyed. 

Mrs. Van Buren, the daughter-in-law of the Presi- 
dent, a very dignified woman, was present. So was 
Mrs. Curtis, the stepmother of George William Curtis, 
a very lovely woman, who was said to have suggested 
the character of Prue, in one of his most delightful 
books. Mr. Curtis's devotion to this lady was so 
filial, tender, and true, that she used to say to her 
own sons: "I hope you will treat me when I am old 
as well as your brother George does. ' ' It was a beau- 
tiful refutation of the opinion that stepmothers must be 
necessarily hated. 

Mr. Bancroft, having been in the Cabinet of Mr. 
Polk, could not meet the Northern heart on the subject 
of the election of Lincoln; therefore, after a few min- 
utes, politics were dropped, although I remember that 
Mrs. Van Buren spoke her mind quite freely on the 

202 



DINNERS WITH GEORGE BANCROFT 

other side. So we talked of the Misses Berry, in Lon- 
don, of whose famous salons both Mr. and Mrs. Ban- 
croft had many brilliant reminiscences. There were 
some English people present, and the character and per- 
sonality of Taglioni, the celebrated danseuse came up. 
One of these ladies had sent her daughters to Taglioni 
to learn to dance, and I afterward saw a most graceful 
woman in London in the salon of Lady Constance 
Leslie, who was a beautiful dancer. She had learned 
of Taglioni. I think this was a daughter of Lady 
Chandos Pole. 

" Taglioni told me," said Mr. Bancroft, "that Eng- 
lish girls were awkward because they were timid. 'I 
made them natural and at ease, and they became grace- 
ful at once.' 

"What was her history?" I asked. "I only knew 
that she danced so lightly that it seemed a trouble for 
her to return to earth." 

"It was," said Mr. Bancroft, "as if she flew upward 
like a butterfly, but came back to earth unwillingly. 
She was married to Count de Voisins in 1834. He made 
her unhappy, and the brilliant creature went from her 
triumphs on the stage to abuse at home. She had one 
beautiful daughter, the Princess Troubetskoy, whom I 
have seen at various Courts of Europe, and a noble sol- 
dier son in the French army; but, although she was poor 
after her life of industry, she preferred a life of labor in 
England to living on her children, for whom she had 
spent a fortune. She had a most interesting home. I 
asked her if she had any relics of Rossini. 'Oh, yes,' 
said she, showing me a drawing by Chalms of the 'Tyro- 
lienne' in 'William Tell.' 'Rossini composed that opera 

263 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

for me, at my own place, in my own house, while I 
looked on and wondered. When I look at the wonder- 
ful "Neapolitaine" I think of glorious Rubini, and of 
how badly he danced before he sang so divinely. ' ' 

"And let me tell of her shoes," said Mrs. Bancroft; 
"they were all sewed round with packthread, in a sort 
of button-hole stitch, which she had done to keep them 
firm. She showed me a pair which she had worn at the 
great triumph in 1842 at St. Petersburg. And she 
showed us the golden wreath given her at the close of a 
Milan triumph, with all her favorite parts inscribed on 
golden leaves, the silver group of Diana and Endymion, 
presented at the close of the Lumley period, and a testi- 
monial from the 'Dandies,' of the time of d'Orsay, 
in which Lord Lammington's name, was conspicuous." 

One of the English couples at the table had brought 
a letter from Lord Lammington to Mr. Bancroft, so 
this was a very apt anecdote. 

"And do not forget her case of beautiful things, 
George," said Mrs. Bancroft — "a fan from the Countess 
Nesselrode and her bracelets from the Emperor of Rus- 
sia." 

"I will leave that to your more facile tongue," said 
the historian. "I prefer to remember her Golden Book, 
the roll of her victories, from the press, especially 
the one rare Punch of 1846, with the 'Taglioni Treaty,' 
in which all the powers are represented bringing bags of 
gold to lay at the feet of La Sylphide, the victorious 
Lumley bringing the heaviest, largest satchel of all." 

"I remember seeing the 'Pas de Quatre,' said 
Mme. de Limburg. 

"So do I," said several voices. 

264 



DINNERS WITH GEORGE BANCROFT 

"But I was more impressed with the woman, who 
after such a career, could appear again in the gloomy 
regions of Connaught Square as a teacher of dancing." 

"What an enviable temperament she must have had! 
You see, she could come down to earth again," said 
Mrs. Van Buren. 

"Yes, thirty years of retirement, the loss of fortune, 
the memory of past triumphs — none of these things had 
made her ill-tempered," said Mme. de Limburg. 

The conversation wandered off to the Court of Vic- 
toria and the royal children, whom Mrs. Bancroft had 
seen in their nursery. She described the little Prince of 
Wales, with his hair freshly brushed, being brought in, 
with his nurse, to see her, and a noble Englishwoman — 
it might have been Lady Palmerston — courtesying to 
the ground as this child entered the room. It struck 
on her American sense queerly. 

Mrs. Bancroft had great talent as a raconteuse. She 
was quite beautiful then, with a very pretty mouth, and 
she adored Mr. Bancroft. Her kinsman, George T. 
Davis, of Greenfield, the wittiest talker of his day, said : 
"She has been married twice, and has been an admirable 
wife. But now she is in love, for the first time in her 
life." I think Mrs. Bancroft grew old more gracefully 
than any one I ever saw. In her very old age Major 
Alexander Bliss, her admirable son, gave me a lovely 
photograph of her, which I keep with fidelity. Mr. 
Bancroft used always to say at dinner: "Betsey, will 
you have fish?" To which she said, gravely, "No, 
I thank you;" and then she would turn to some 
one, with her pretty smile, and say: "He knows I never 
take it, but we go through this form every day." 

265 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

Her dinners were remarkably nice, but not at all 
equal to the splendors of the modern dinner table. There 
were no flowers used in those early days, but exquisite 
damask, plain, solid silver, candles, and the finest cut' 
glass. She declaimed against embroidered and laced 
tablecloths, colored velvet under the epergne, and laced 
napkins and doilies. She was a handsome, dignified, 
elegant Boston lady, somewhat prim. 

At this particular dinner Mr. H. T. Tuckerman was 
present, and we talked much of Rogers, and his break- 
fasts, of which Mr. Bancroft had many anecdotes. He 
thought their agreeability singularly overrated, although 
he acknowledged that they had brought him to know 
some famous men. 

Lady Palmerston he found most fascinating. "The 
most singularly tactful person," he said; "and she intro- 
duced me to Grisi." Then he added some anecdotes of 
Grisi, "whose arms were those which the Venus of Milo 
had lost," and who said of her daughters, when some 
one called them her "Grisettes," "No, they are my Mari- 
onettes." 

"She was greatly in love with Mario," said Mr. Ban- 
croft, "and it improved her acting." 

"He was not in love with her, which injured his, " 
said Mme. de Limburg. 

"Oh, he was a stupid fellow," said Mr. Bancroft, 
"vox et praeterea nihil." 

"But that was enough," said Mme. de Limburg; 
"what a voice! " 

Mr. Bancroft was very fond of music. I used to go 
to the opera with him for many winters, when he had 
two seats in the front row of the orchestra at the old 

266 




C&o ry e fd$A*&% &m-y 



^yeorae ^Dancpoff tn 






DINNERS WITH GEORGE BANCROFT 

Academy of Music, on a line with Mrs. Belmont's box, 
in which she, a vision of beauty, always sat, the fairy 
queen of fashion. Over our heads, just beyond in the 
upper proscenium box, was Mrs. Robert Cutting, hand- 
some, and a great authority in music. Around her was 
always a galaxy of beauty — Mrs. Heywood Cutting and 
Mrs. Brockholst, and a number of dark, elegant Cutting 
men, "the rose and the expectancy of the fair state." 
Sometimes the party was reinforced by the more beauti- 
ful Mrs. Lloyd Aspinwall, the wife to the General. 
Opposite to us, would be the Baron and Baroness 
von Hoffman, while right over our heads, were Col. 
Henry G. Stebbins and his family. He educated Clara 
Louise Kellogg, who was an admirable Marguerite be- 
fore Nilsson, and good in everything. 

In these days the great Italian artist Salvi, was the 
incomparable tenor, and Steffanoni, wonderful singer, 
with her veiled voice, gave us the renowned rendering of 
the "Lucrezia Borgia," which I have never heard 
excelled. Piccolomini also sang — the little niece of the 
Pope, as she proudly claimed to be; and the great, too 
early lost, Parepa Rosa, came later on. 

Mr. Bancroft was exceedingly fond of the opera and 
Mrs. Bancroft did not care for it. "Will you go, and 
amuse George?" she would say to me. So I went, a 
young woman, fond to folly of Italian music, and not 
afraid of the night air (then) ! This and many a dinner 
later on at their delightful house in West Twenty-first 
Street, brought me to know this wonderful and many- 
sided man very well. His memory was phenomenal. 

After the Newport dinner we all went to a beautiful 
ball at the Bareda mansion, where we met Mr. Tom 

267 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

Appleton and many another Boston person. It seems 
to me that Philadelphia and Boston people came to 
Newport then more than the New Yorkers. I remember 
a distinguished quartet who used to play whist at the 
Fillmore — Mrs. Walden Pell, Mrs. James Otis (very 
handsome, with beautiful hands), Mr. E. S. Willing, 
and Mrs. Jones McCall (a charming Southerner from New 
Orleans). They were all quite worthy of the legends of 
Court life under Louis XV, elegant devotees of whist. 
While there was no such luxury as at the present, there 
was far more stately grace to these Newport seasons than 
there has been since. Mrs. Sidney Brooks, who built 
the stone house now belonging to Mr. Bennett (I 
believe), was a Miss Dehon, of Boston, a scholarly, 
accomplished woman, worthy to be sister-in-law to 
Edward Everett. Indeed, she always had rather a 
classic style in her conversation. Mrs. Viele, a ram- 
pant wit of those days, said of her: "I had a meeting 
with Mrs. Sidney Brooks yesterday, she with forty 
curls on the side of her face, I with no curls at all. We 
had a little gossip about Copernicus, in which I fared 
very badly." 

Mrs. Brooks would never call on her near neighbor, 
Mrs. Paran Stevens, of the Marietta villa, which caused 
the latter to shed many tears. And later on, Mrs. Cul- 
lum and Mrs. Astor both refrained from calling on that 
hospitable woman, whose victory over society was 
accomplished by so much bloodshed that it recalled the 
Duke of Wellington's remark that " there was but one 
thing more terrible than a defeat, and that was a vic- 
tory." Mr. Sidney Brooks, an elegant Boston gentle- 
man and a cultivated person, was more lenient than his 

268 



DINNERS WITH GEORGE BANCROFT 

wife, and would have floated with the tide, but she, 
never! Give one a woman for tenacity of purpose. 

They gave most charming dinners at what Mr. 
Brooks called Sebastopol, his stone villa, and Mrs. Bel- 
mont was often at his right hand. 

Indeed, it was an aristocratic, proud, exclusive, par- 
ticular, little circle, not as gay, perhaps, as the one 
which Mr. Travers and Mr. McAllister made later, but 
well worth remembering, with its very decided features 
of an ideal summer resort. 

While Mr. Bancroft was Minister to Germany, 
Prof. Fairman Rogers hired his villa, and took good 
care of Mr. Bancroft's roses, which Mr. Bancroft, in 
common with his fellow-historian Parkman, delighted in 
cultivating. This was an improvement upon the Roman 
Emperor's task, who cultivated cabbages; and one can 
scarcely refrain from wishing to put in his garden the 
offshoot of one of these bushes, which had such learned 
hands at their roots. 

I never heard Mr. Bancroft talk " history" but once, 
and then he gave us a really amusing account of his 
bouts with "revolutionary grandsons." 



269 



Flotsam and Jetsam 

Having just seen an illustrated paper of Newport in 
Mr. Lorillard Spencer's Pictorial for August, 1897, I 
find much that I had forgotten, of this most famous 
watering-place, coming back like seaweed floating in, 
to a memory which always refuses to let go, that, which 
is comparatively of no importance, I do not remember 
valuable dates of history very well, but I might open a 
little book which will be of value in 1997 — accounts written 
(at the time) of Newport dinners and festivals, a journal 
of "seventeen visits to Newport," ranging from the 
beginning of time to the present moment, 1897. 

What a little snug town it was, when I first saw it, in 
1848, and long after, with only a few villas, stretching 
down on Bellevue avenue, from Beaulieu to Finisterre, 
the home of the Brewers. 

I open vaguely at the date "August 21, 1879, "and w ^ 
go backward and forward as I pick out interesting items. 
"The present rainy season makes this record particularly 
timely, showing that St. Swithin was not born yester- 
day. 

"Monday evening was Mrs. Morton's great ball, 
and every one wanted to go. To us, who did go, 
the journey was perilous, as the water came down on 
the top of the carriage like Niagara, and the wind 
nearly blew us over. However, the elegance of the 
house and the cordiality of the hostess, the charming 

270 



FLOTSAM AND JETSAM 

beauty of the debutantes, and the perfection of the 
arrangements, made one forget the howling night until 
it was time to go home. The cottagers who lived far 
off had fearful experiences. ' ' Col. De Lancey Kane had 
to take the reins and send his coachman down to feel for 
a bridge. Those who had to cross the causeway trem- 
bled as their carriages swayed to and fro. The fury of 
the wind shook their houses, threatening to demolish 
them. Altogether, it was a fearful night, and the beau- 
tiful tent which presented such an "Arabian Nights" 
entertainment at Mrs. Fred Stevens's on Friday evening 
previous, and which was left for the next Friday, blew 
over and demolished the fairy-like arrangement of fes- 
toons, Japanese fans, ferns, smilax, and pillars of ice, 
with vines growing over them which ornamented its 
interior." 

This idea was perhaps taken from an entertainment 
given by the Swedish minister at Washington in 1874. 
They look like diamonds, these Arctic pillars, when 
illuminated by a thousand lamps. They cool the air, 
and present a glacier-like effect when covered with vines. 
They remind one of Switzerland as the glittering ice runs 
down into the green valley, the crocuses growing at their 
feet. 

" However, the howling storm did not content itself 
with blowing down the tent alone. Some of Mr. 
Charles H. Russell's fine trees went next, and there was 
incalculable mischief done to the flowers and green- 
houses. 

However, by four in the morning the skies were 
clear, and Jupiter — the morning star — was smiling and 
laughing down upon the little world which he had 

271 






HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

helped to perturb, like a malignant, but handsome, 
giant. 

Tuesday was so glorious that all Newport went forth 
to see the sea, which was in a fine state of unrest. Some 
merman Byron was stirring up his fellows to utter the 
great poem of discontent. It was all so fine that one 
forgot the storm. 

The Town and Country Club held a meeting at Mr. 
John N. A. Griswold's delightful house, to hear Mr. 
Atkinson read a paper on " Distinguished Boys." It 
was clear, original, and pleasing, giving us the stammer- 
ing little Elia, Charles Lamb, the lame little Sir Walter, 
the handsome, unhappy Noel Byron, who, with true 
schoolboy instinct, cried when his master called out 
"Dominus" after his name. No schoolboy will forget 
what martyrdom that meant to the fourth form. The 
coming gibes of his schoolfellows struck on his pro- 
phetic soul. Mr. Atkinson said that " Byron was half a 
Philistine and half a poet." I did not agree with this 
criticism, for I consider Byron very much of a whole 
poet. 

"Lord of himself, that heritage of woe," he showed 
his sense when he cried at being called "Dominus." 
But it was a good paper, and Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, 
always witty, said some pungent things about it, and 
declared that the next meeting would be at her house, 
and that some "good girls" would follow the "distin- 
guished boys," from which we hope that she is to read a 
paper herself. 

"Captain Candy, an eccentric Englishman, has made a 
sensation by riding his horse into the club ! This gentle- 
man, who is half a centaur (on this occasion he forgot 

272 



FLOTSAM AND JETSAM 

that he was not wholly one), was on a polo pony, and, 
suffering from the ennui of a rainy morning, accepted an 
invitation from a young man on the piazza, who said, 
'Come in with your pony.' He immediately, in that 
spirit of practical joking and dare-devil courage which 
seems to possess a certain class of young Englishmen, 
rode up a very shallow set of steps on the club veranda 
and off again. An hour after he was expelled by the 
older governors, and has been severely criticised for a 
breach of etiquette. He apologized, and was reinstated 
last evening." 

"When people say that he would not have done that 
thing in his own country, I disagree, for an eccentric 
Englishman will do anything in his own country if his 
fancy moves him that way." 

A very different order of Englishman is Mr. T. Bay- 
ley Potter, visiting Mr. Cyrus W. Field, who has a 
house here this summer. The great free-trader enjoyed 
a lunch at Mr. Field's on Tuesday. Mr. C. H. Russell, 
Mr. Morton, General Potter, and the Butler Committee 
met him. He made a neat little speech, and expressed 
acknowledgment of his admiration for the Stars and 
Stripes, which he said he should dislike to have disap- 
pear from foreign waters. The Butler Committee were 
entertained at dinner by Governor Lawrence. Some 
foolish women were asking ''what they were here for," 
when one of them answered, "We are holding a com- 
mittee which will cost ten thousand dollars to investi- 
gate an office which is worth two thousand dollars." 

There is a line of wrecks along the shore. Several 
fishermen lost their little all. Weeping women are sit- 
ting on the rocks lamenting the loss, and looking, per- 

273 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

haps, for some vestige of the frail boat which sailed 

between them and starvation. 

" For men must work and women must weep, 
While the harbor bar is moaning! " 

Many suggestions are made that these gay young 
gentlemen of Newport should get up tableaux and cha- 
rades, by the proceeds of which they can buy a new boat 
for an old fisherman. Mrs. Wheeler, the daughter of 
Governor Lawrence, will superintend these entertain- 
ments. 

A young man, who wears a bracelet and is other- 
wise a very dilettante youth, saved a drowning man on 
Monday evening, with splendid bravery and heroic self- 
forgetfulness. This makes one think of the fop in his- 
tory, and of the affectations which brave men enjoy. I 
met one of these modern Vikings last evening faultlessly 
attired. He took much pains to tell me as he was lolling 
in a chair, that he was going to Norway fishing, and that 
he always took a great deal of orange marmalade and his 
own tea with him. As he was as big as Siegrist, as 
strong as Thor, and as splendid as Amri, I was amused 
to hear him dilate on this attention to his little comforts. 
I knew he could subsist, if he chose to do so, for years 
on blubber and whale oil, and wrapped in a sealskin 
could sleep on an iceberg all winter. I thought of those 
heroes from whom he is remotely descended, who drank 
their mead out of the skulls of their enemies, while this 
fop measures the thinness of his tea-cup to that of an 
egg-shell. I imagine he carries along a bag as big as a 
writing-desk with implements for cleaning his nails, but 
on occasion he could twist those implements into fish- 
hooks with his one "Guy Livingston" right hand. 

274 



FLOTSAM AND JETSAM 

Newport is one long panorama of luxury, healthy 
summer pleasure, and dreamy delight, and again, of the 
dolce far niente. It is more what you do not do than 
what you do do. I remember Channing's beautiful 
tribute to its climate: "Nothing ever did for me what 
Newport did ; the rest, the rest, the repose ! its romantic 
soft charm. It is a pillow of rose leaves." Add to 
these, memories of " Queen's Hythe," the little 
harbor, the French officers, those beautiful Hunters, the 
chapter of Jewish history and beneficence, the old 
haunted houses, the princely merchants like Malbone, the 
three artists of renown, Stuart, Malbone, and Staigg — 
who was the most famous of miniature painters, thirty 
years ago, and who was taught to paint by Miss Jane 
Stuart herself, are distinguished landmarks. This lady, 
I met first at a ladies' lunch, of twenty-five fashionables, 
she in her old bonnet and gown, and plain face — she was 
the most honored, famous woman of them all. She said 
to me: "You look like a Stuart picture; if you will 
come to my house and sit for me I will paint your 
portrait. I alone have the secret of my father's red and 
white." I went, and the enjoyment I felt in her con- 
versation remains still, as does the portrait, very badly 
drawn, but beautifully colored. I tried to make her 
talk of her father. "He was very homely, like me," 
she said, "and he spent his money outside, leaving 
only a few pictures to his wife and daughters. He said 
that Mrs. Washington was very corn-fed." I did not get 
an amiable picture of Gilbert Stuart from her, but I 
learned to respect her fine, independent character, her 
wit, and her most amusing, sarcastic talk. She copied 
her father's pictures well and often. This amid the 

275 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

reminiscences of old Newport and memories of its ban- 
ished prosperity and slumber, of fifty years, to be followed 
by this great wave of fashion, and progress, all go by with 
me, as I take the ocean drive and fill the sunset with 
strange figures from imagination now. 

An old friend told me that her mother, who was 
a de Wolfe, told her that she remembered well see- 
ing the cargoes of slaves first brought in a slaveship! 
(the noble traffic of our Northern merchants !) allowed to 
cool their poor feet in the waves, sitting along the 
wharves, to try and forget the heat, the constraint, and 
the sorrow of the middle passage. She said their faces, 
which she looked at as a little child, would haunt her 
to her grave. 

Perhaps it will do us no harm to remember that group, 
and, while we are rejoicing that the slaveship never 
comes to Newport now, to remember that everywhere 
there are suffering, cramped destinies and weary souls 
whom, perhaps, we may cheer some day. 

So far from my old journal ! I will not quote much 
more from any one date, except to say that it shows us 
here how much we forget. There is an account of the 
good horse Parole, who had in April won for his owner, 
Mr. Pierre Lorillard, $118,000, and of whom we talked 
at dinners. Who remembers Parole now? 

But every one remembers the splendid balls which 
Mrs. Lorillard used to give at The Breakers, "herself the 
fairest flower," and the grand picnics of Mr. Bennett, 
most hospitable of hosts. My first clambake had been 
many years before, but Mr. Bennett's surpassed them all. 

"The Duke of Beaufort had a bass before him which 
weighed forty pounds. He had caught it himself. It 

276 



swi,; 5i ,,,,,i,:a s ,:.,;^ a ,, 5 ::,. 



A b/ne^wcoti, /rom a /iain/i, 



i?za t??i ia?w .y {van 



</ 



FLOTSAM AND JETSAM 

was dressed by Mr. Bennett's chef, a man of fine feeling, 
who would have been capable of killing himself if the fish 
had not arrived (at the picnic). But there it was "in the 
fish;" inspiring many an amateur Izaak Walton to tell 
of his triumphs. Mr. Charles Strong brought in one 
from West Island, weighing fifty-eight pounds, and fre- 
quently there is a capture of one that turns the scale (or 
the scales) at one hundred pounds. West Island was 
then the scene (in 1879) °f these scaly triumphs. 

" Forced, like a Hessian, from his native soil 
To seek destruction in a foreign broil," 

the Newport fish has to go down to New York to be pre- 
sented in the market, then returned to Newport, before 
he can be eaten. It is a very great shame." 

I find that I met a good amateur poet, my friend, 
Edward Tuckerman Potter, architect, musician, con- 
noisseur, who read a charming poem called "The 
Soldan," at Mrs. Julia Ward Howe's. Mr. S. Hall 
Powell read a paper on the microscope. 

Shall I descend to a description of what dress was 
then? From philosophy and Bishop Berkeley to a "tale 
or tail, of gowns" — what a descent! The gowns were 
awfully splendid, according to my little yellow book. 

"A strawberry cream chintz, and a Gainsborough 
hat." 

"A black silk with cuirass waist covered with gold, 
ay, a network of gold;" or, better still, "a pale blue 
India mull with white embroidery." Sleeves were tight 
and trains were long, and there was a bustle of consider- 
able dimensions. 

There was no casino, and no lawn tennis. There 
was much talk of this belle and that beau. The words 

277 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

"snob and nob" rang loudly, and "good form and posi- 
tion, and bad lot and no position," all of which amused 
the Englishmen. They did not realize that "position" 
meant more to an American than to any one else. 

As I turn over the pages of the little book, I find 
accounts of dinners at Mr. Bancroft's, each a bit of his- 
tory; lectures by Dr. Ellis, most delightful; many 
receptions, with dancing and singing, and beginning as 
far back as 1857, when Brignoli sang with the beauti- 
ful Mrs. Yznaga (mother of the Duchess Consuelo), at 
the Bellevue — or was it the Fillmore? A lovely woman 
and a lovely voice! I did everything, but mention 
dates. I am generally bad about dates, my reminiscences 
(penciled down the next morning) fail to tell where I 
was at the moment. As I visited one dear friend in five 
different houses, this is confusing. 

But there is enough left to make a volume, and if this 
one unimportant season has held such keys to pleasant 
memories, I hope that others may do better. I met, 
in 1882, President Arthur at Newport (indeed, I once 
met (in 1850 I believe), Henry Clay there). My recol- 
lections may hold some agreeable surprises for those now 
living who remember, and for those who like to be told 
of their ancestors. 

One of my most agreeable reminiscences of Newport 
is a visit to Miss Catharine Wolfe, the Baroness Burdett- 
Coutts of that period, of New York. Not only had 
she then given a chime of bells to Grace church, but her 
private munificence was so wonderful, so silent, her con- 
tributions to all worthy objects so magnificent ; yet she 
found time to help poor and gifted girls. I find among 
my papers this allusion to one of them: 

278 



FLOTSAM AND JETSAM 

*' Heard at a musical party last night a fine contralto. 
It was that of Miss O'Keefe, a protegee of Miss Catha- 
rine Wolfe, who has given her her musical education. It 
was a superb voice, reminding me of Antoinette Sterling. 
Frederic Clay says that he has not heard in London or 
Paris such amateurs as in New York." 

Miss Wolfe went on spending her vast fortune well, 
and her beautiful house at Newport she had hoped would 
always remain in her family, but, alas! its wealthy owner, 
her favorite nephew, chose to live abroad. Newport is 
no continuing city, and of the friends I knew first, no 
one is living in the same house in which he lived then, 
or, perhaps, only three houses are even in the same fam- 
ily. The longest continuous resident is my dear and 
hospitable friend, Mrs. C. N. Beach. Death has taken 
many, many, but love of change has taken many more. 
How well I remember the beautiful garden parties given 
by Miss Fanny Russell at her father's splendid place, 
where a perpetual, gorgeous supper-dinner-tea went on 
for hours of the golden afternoon ! How well I remem- 
ber also the glories of the first coach-and-four drive 
which I took with Mr. Fairman Rogers, when a coach- 
and-four was something very new in Newport ! 

But, like the waves of the sea, these recollections 
overwhelm me, and I must stop. It is not, however, all 
flotsam and jetsam. There are still some gems and 
some beautiful seaweed in my little book. 

Prof. Fairman Rogers had what was then called 
(1879) one of the show places of Newport. It certainly 
was beautiful enough, within and without, to satisfy 
most people, yet I hear that it has been taken down and 
a finer house erected on the perfect site. There was — 

279 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

and is — a little dimple in the sea, as it caresses the shore, 
in front of this place, which is one of the most charming 
things in Newport. This parlor was considered very 
pretty, even splendid, in its day, but fashions have 
changed — that tufted round seat is now relegated to the 
steamboats. The papers have been full of the gorgeous 
entertainments given in this house by its present owners, 
Mr. and Mrs. A. J. Drexel, of Philadelphia. Mr. and 
Mrs. George W. Wales had a very beautiful house full 
of exquisite china near Finisterre, now a palace owned 
by Mrs. Brooks. 

I once heard a fine lecture by Dr. George Ellis, on 
Bishop Berkeley, in a room which was, I believe, 
modeled after their famous dining-room in Boston. Cer- 
tainly, it was very full of china. I suspect this house 
remains unchanged. 

From Mrs. Julia Ward Howe's simple cottage, six 
miles out of town, full of " plain living and high think- 
ing," from Mr. George Calvert's plain little bungalow in 
Catherine street, where Rubens' pictures hung on the 
walls, up to Beaulieu and Beachwood, the distance was 
even then great; but who shall describe the distance 
between even those fine places and Mr. Ogden Goelet's 
superb Italian villa, to the gorgeous •■' Marble House," 
and to the unapproachable magnificence of Mr. Cornelius 
Vanderbilt's splendid villa, within and without, nous 
avons change tout cela! Tout 'passe \ tout casse, tout lasse! 



The Decadence of the American 
Watering-Place 

The universal note as to the agreeability of watering- 
places is, this Summer, one of despair. I have a letter 
from the beautiful, fashionable mother of many fair 
daughters before me, and she writes a jeremiad on this 
subject: 

Newport is very stupid, not a man there; and Narragansett has 
exploded, gone out, nobody there. We are now at Saratoga; and the 
girls, who have been in Europe several years at school, and who have 
heard me describe my once old delightful days here, are calling me 
a dreamer and an optimist. I think they would call me a worse name 
if they dared. But why is it that the world has deserted this conve- 
nient, healthful, and most lovely place, Saratoga? Where are all the 
people? Where is that life that you and 1 led as young girls, when 
even Niagara was utilized as a watering-place, and when G. P. R. 
James said that it was " the only watering-place in America that was 
not as dry as a bone ?" Do you not remember the army of colored 
waiters at the three o'clock dinner, coming in in single file with each a 
dish, headed by an Indian (the best head-waiter I ever saw), and how 
we met the gay fashion at Niagara, and how we danced at the Clifton 
House and went out to look at the lunar rainbow by moonlight ? Do 
you remember the two houses at Newport, the Bellevue and the Fill- 
more, one of which was governed by Mrs. Walden Pell, and the other 
by Mrs. Julius Pringle; and what belles we were ! and how our Sum- 
mer, we divided thus: June at West Point, July at Saratoga, the gay- 
est of the gay, governed by Mrs. Rush, of Philadelphia, (with Frank 
Waddell for a Beau Nash) and August at Newport; our yellow and 
pink muslins, the elderly dames in brocade and diamonds ? Do you 
remember those Southern beauties, with a new dress for every day 

281 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

while they stayed ? Do you remember Long Branch, with How- 
land's, full of most aristocratic Philadelphians ? There surely was 
no lack of the eligible beau there. I remember a ball at Newport, 
given by Mme. Barreda, who built the house now called Beaulieu — 
what a dream of splendor we thought that! I know it has always 
been the home of hospitality ever since, but I doubt if the girls of to- 
day have as enviable a time as we did. 

As for the smaller watering-place hotels, so many of them are 
now closed which I once knew; but even those which are open have 
more servants than guests. Where is everybody ? 

You remember that, after Newport (where we spent August), we 
went to West Point in September. There we met General Scott at 
Cranston's. What a scene of unbridled dissipation we thought that, 
when we danced every evening with an officer in uniform, and our 
shoulders got fearfully scratched with their dear epaulets ! Gallant 
fellows, were they not? 

Now, my girls are not having any such chances. Cranston's is 
as picturesque as ever, and well kept, but there are no officers, at least 
who come down here to flirt. Then, fashion has deserted West Point 
and Cupid has left town. He must be sulking near Mount Ida or in 
dull Boeotia. That reminds me even that poor little Greece has col- 
lapsed, and we shall read of it hereafter in an encyclopaedia some- 
thing in this wise: 

" Greece, a forlorn peninsula, once visited by Byron. See Byron's 
Poems, in three volumes. 

" ' The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece, 
Where burning Sappho loved and sung.' 

etc.; also, 

" ' Maid of Athens, ere we part, 

Give, oh, give me back my heart.' " 

Thus, Greece, a finished volume. 

I think that is " all in the air " since I see the change in watering- 
place life in America. No one of my poor girls will be asked by any 
young man to " give him back his heart." Where are all the young 
men ? We hear that they are in the Adirondacks; but we went there 
last summer — we found nobody but guides. 

My friend says very much more, comparing the fading 
away of the life, once so amusing, of the American 
watering-place. She will wind up at Newport for 
August, and find it gay, no doubt, and will manage at 

282 



DECADENCE OF THE WATERING-PLACE 

Tuxedo or Southampton, or at the Ardsley Casino, or 
some other attractive spot, to get through with Septem- 
ber and October. 

But she must remember that the old life at Saratoga 
was doomed when the Adirondacks were discovered, and 
young men found that a flannel shirt was much more 
comfortable round the neck than a starched one. Local 
causes may ruin one place, and another starts up. The 
bicycle and the game of golf completed the ruin of that 
cotillion party which once solaced the evenings at the 
smaller as at the larger watering-places. 

My friend refers to the superior amusement to be 
found at Homburg, Aix-les-Bains, Schwalbach,and Evian- 
les-Bains — in fact, at all foreign watering-places. They 
live on wandering Princes and on the gambling, as well as 
on the cures of the rheumatic — and also on that much 
wiser plan of making the watering-place full of good 
music, having a "cure" and a theatre and something to 
do all the time. We have never reached that pitch of 
refinement, excepting at Newport, which is a place for 
the very rich, and therefore is not to be quoted as a uni- 
versal solvent. 

The hard times have doubtless conspired to make the 
watering-places empty. People now can hardly afford 
to take a large family to any hotel for several weeks. 
As the girls are very happy with their bicycles and pic- 
nics, economy becomes easier. Each little village has 
now its golf course, or links, or should have, for al- 
though it ruins conversation, golf has come to stay; 
each village is its own watering-place. Parents no 
longer think it their duty to take Sarah to Saratoga for 
a fortnight, that she may see the world and learn the 

283 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

fashions. The fashions travel by telegraph, as Bret 
Harte says, and Harper s Bazar leaves no one in 
doubt as to the cut of sleeves. 

It is astonishing to enter what once was a rural and a 
retired spot, to see even the serving maids with high 
hats, a choking ribbon tied round the throat, with a high 
bow behind, and a voluminous shoulder-trimming of 
lace. Yet there is no solitude so vast, no endless con- 
tiguity of space, that is not invaded by all the affecta- 
tions which may have been invented by a scrofulous 
Princess, in the name of fashion. 

Vanity Fair , in a recent article, speaks with great 

bitterness of the utter decay of London society. Says 

this vivacious sheet : 

The wave of vulgarity has washed away all that aristocracy and 
culture have been building up for centuries. It declares that what 
exists to-day is but a hideous caricature, and that in Rome and 
Vienna, and even in republican Paris, London society has become a 
laughing stock. Blood, pride of race, what are these; where are 
they nowadays? Money, above all the willingness to entertain, these 
are the pass-keys to what was once a fortress to be entered by birth, 
and birth alone. Even good character is not essential, for if the wine 
is good and the room handsome, and the orchids beautiful, what mat- 
ter antecedents ? 

Thus the severe Vanity Fair upon London society, 
which Americans have hitherto regarded as the one spot 
where society was safe. 

This would seem to have little to do with the dullness 
of the American watering-place, but it is quoted to mark 
that great law of change which has swept over the whole 
world of late. No doubt the splendor of the palaces at 
Newport appall a great many sober citizens and keep 
them away from our opal of the sea. But the life is in- 
dividual cottage life, not a watering-place hotel life at all. 

284 



DECADENCE OF THE WATERING-PLACE 

The more we approach this subject the harder it be- 
comes to understand its sudden collapse. It would be 
well if we could believe that a growing love of country 
life, of individual homes, should be the reason why the 
watering-place is suffering such neglect. 

It is almost too good to be believed that the homo- 
geneous American people are really getting into country 
homes wherein they and their children can be happy all 
the year round. That would indeed be the desired 
Utopia. The busy New York man, who must be in New 
York all of his business-day, is fond of the semi-detached 
villa, if he cannot afford a better, where he can rejoin 
his family of nights, and dig about his rose-trees and kill 
the grasshoppers in the seldom-recurring holiday. This 
is the healthy sign of the times. 

And so on up to the very rich man who builds on 
the Hudson River, or out at Tuxedo, or at Saratoga, his 
palatial country house, where he lives like an English 
lord, and where his wife is very happy while the house 
party lasts, if the cook will remain. These people, how- 
ever, are always shutting up the delightful house and 
going over to Europe. 

How many houses on the Hudson are open to-day? 
The greater number of their owners are probably lingering, 
after the Diamond Jubilee, to taste the sweets of that 
London society of which Vanity Fair says such evil 
things. Another contingent is bathing in European 
waters and tossing the coins about at Aix-les-Bains. 

The hegira to Europe, however — so say the steamship 
companies — has not been so great this Summer (1897) as 
usual. 

Where, then, are all the people? Are they in some 

285 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

quiet country house, the man stretched on the grass 
under the elm, which entirely shelters him? He has 
returned, perhaps, to the town where he was born, and is 
striking down his roots, those fine deep roots which 
attach a man to the soil where his forefathers were. His 
wife does not love as well as he does the localisms of 
speech, the peculiar intonation "unto which she was not 
born." No vulgarities, no Yankee twangs, no drawls, 
are dear to us but our own. She finds the days long, 
the evenings unendurably dull. The lamps all smell of 
kerosene. Madame is not as happy as Monsieur. She 
would like to go to a watering-place, if she could find one 
open. 

"What are these mysterious influences which change 
our happiness into discouragement and our confidence 
into distress?" says Guy de Maupassant. "One would 
almost say that the air was full of unknowable powers, to 
whose mysterious proximity we submit. I am all full of 
gayety, with desires to sing in my throat ; whence comes 
this shiver of cold, which, brushing across my skin, has 
unsettled my nerves and darkened my soul?" 

It may be a coming thunderstorm or a sudden acces- 
sion of humidity. 

Our American climate is a very trying one. It has 
not been of the same mind as to weather for two weeks 
at a time this trying Summer of 1897. That renders us 
all very nervous. We are haunted by the mystery of 
the invisible; we need change. Were we in an old 
inherited English home we should be as placid as oxen 
and drink in repose at every breath. As we Americans, 
however, sit in the forest we get tired of its aromatic 
odors, its aisles of Gothic extent, its wonderful beauty, 

286 



DECADENCE OF THE WATERING-PLACE 

its birds and its wild flowers, and we sigh for that im- 
mense blue bay which we once saw stretching out between 
two lovely shores. We think of the white sail which 
once wafted us on to perfect bliss, and we wish to breathe 
a breath of salt air once more. 

If we are in a valley, we long for the profile of that 
fantastic rock which is black against a glaring sunset. If 
we are Americans, we wish we were somewhere else but 
in the place where we are now. For this reason, if for 
no other, the bicycle is ruining the watering-place. It 
ministers to this universal unrest. No one who can com- 
mand that obedient steed need stay anywhere long. 

Our great country has so many attractive spots, such 
delicious Summer abiding-places, from Newport to 
Niagara, from the Delaware Water Gap to the isles of 
the St. Lawrence, from the great lakes to the Adiron- 
dacks, from the Falls of Niagara to Canada and to Nova 
Scotia — what a choice and chance we have! Rapid 
transit and parlor cars have made change imperative; for ^ fc^ATo&-t\ 
who will sit down on the piazza at the United States for ^* » * 

a month, when for half the money he can go to Japan, 
he can explore the Yukon (beautiful Greek sounding 
name), and bring home nuggets enough in his pocket 
handkerchief to last him all Summer? How many a 
hostess potent at Lenox is taking her repose by a journey 
to Alaska or to a camp in the Adirondacks, and all the 
way in a parlor car? 

This is another cause for the forsaking of the watering- 
place. Once, when we went half the way to Sharon 
Springs by stage coach, with our trunks slung under the 
carriage, or more frequently left them behind at Herki- 
mer, we were not in such a hurry to come away. 

287 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

"Nous avons change tout cela. " 

Newport at one time seemed a delightful resting place 
for the European diplomatist, and yet I now see that 
the home of "the English legation will be this Summer 
at Manchester-by-the-Sea." Bar Harbor complains that 
it has no public-spirited citizens who will build a Casino, 
and that its clientele is too changeful. In fine weather 
Bar Harbor seems to me the peerless place of the world, 
with its woods and waters, the place where heaven 
touches earth, but in a fog they say it is detestable. I 
found Poland Springs entirely entrancing one Summer, 
but I sent some friends there who declared that the 
"demon of whist had ruined it." I should rather look 
at the fine profile of Mount Washington than a whist 
table, but even with scientific whist I should think it 
would be hard to spoil Poland Springs and its sparkling 
water. 

Yet I can sympathize with my friend, who has 
daughters, as to that old gay life for the budding debu- 
tante, and for the unquiet old lady, the American young 
grandmother, who, as somebody said, was "still running 
for office." These are not housed and amused as they 
once were. Doubtless soon — perhaps in 1900 — we shall 
have definitely settled on some place where both can 
again be happy. But at this present speaking there seems 
to be a lack somewhere. There is nothing perfect in 
this world. 



288 



Books That Society Reads 

What does society read? Principally novels; and 
just now it is reading those of Anthony Hope. Most 
delightful things they are, too — healthy and brilliant and 
amusing. 

Anthony Hope is like a jeweler who studies the 
designs of past artists. He adds to his images the 
images of others, borrowing and recasting their inven- 
tions, as an artist who unites and multiplies the precious 
stones and gold filagree, all ready for the diadem, which 
many workmen before him have prepared. He has made 
for himself, thus, a composite and brilliant style, less 
natural than that of Stevenson, less fit for effusion, less 
akin to the first lively gleam of sensation, but more 
witty (his wit is his own), more regular, more capable of 
concentrating in one large patch of light all the spark- 
lings and splendors of everybody's diamonds. His love- 
making and his love episodes are always charming. It is 
like dressing for a Court ball in a strange country; it is 
like being present at a magnificent royal wedding; it is 
fete day all the time, to read "A Prisoner of Zenda." 
No wonder society loves it and all that he writes ; he is a 
great artist. 

The trifles which he has thrown us later as "The 
Dolly Dialogues," etc., are like the bouquets which ar- 
rive after we are dressed. We receive them with pleas- 
ure, but with abated enthusiasm. 

289 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

Next after him does society rush into a little Scotch 
village and read "A Window in Thrums" and "The 
Little Minister." Here we have a bit of Rembrandt 
painting; nothing is better, nothing sweeter. Here is a 
classic. Some critic of Milton said that Adam entered 
paradise by way of England, where he learned respect- 
ability and moral speechifying. Eve had become a good 
housekeeper, and so gave the angels most excellent din- 
ners. Barrie takes us to Bonnie Scotland to teach us 
how to use our eyes and make observation noble — even if 
it wrecks itself on watching how many pints of milk a 
neighbor takes in. The exquisite humor and the under- 
lying poetry are unspeakably dear, but perhaps the ob- 
server has dwarfed the poet. There is something to 
regret in this. 

The man who wrote "A Gentleman of France" is a 
benefactor of the human race. What a friend to the 
young! A sort of modern, healthy, not too diffuse 
Dumas. Stanley J. Weyman is a favorite with society, 
as is W. Clark Russell, who, ever since he wrote "The 
Wreck of the Grosvenor, " has proved that he knows 
how to tell a story. 

But it is only fair to say that Molly Elliot Seawell is 
intensely a favorite. She seems a long way off from 
these other writers, but she is delightful, amusing, and 
clean. One must remember that society is not a very 
reflective body. One must remember that it is made up 
of the descendants of the Puritans who, behind their fer- 
vent faith, had the blood in their veins of "Brutal Brit- 
ons," who loved bear-baiting, who went to the play and 
afterwards whipped the actors. To make crime more 
certain they persecuted pleasure. 

290 



BOOKS THAT SOCIETY READS 

So the literary taste of the average American varies be- 
tween "The Pilgrim's Progress" and the novels of 
Ouida. and has taken a turn at Zola. 

In no sense, except the fact that Thomas Otway 
must be in our blood somewhere, can we attribute the 
taste shown for the later works of that once refined 
writer, Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett. The author of 
"Little Lord Fauntleroy" might once have been taunted 
with sentimentalism, but not with impurity. Her latest 
novels and plays have the coarse and vicious qualities of 
Thomas Otway, who, a student, an actor, an officer, 
always poor, always in excess and in misery, had the fire 
and intensity of the older dramatists. He was a fol- 
lower of that school which Dryden founded, and which 
exhibited itself in the reign of Queen Anne in all its 
completeness, authority, and splendor. But Thomas 
Otway pleased the passions of a detestable age with his 
coarse and vicious cavaliers, who were rogues on princi- 
ple. "The Soldier's Fortune," "The Atheist," 
"Friendship in Fashion," "Venice Preserved," and 
"The Orphan" — they are all obscene, vulgar, and un- 
wholesome, and they form the staple of "The Lady of 
Quality" and "His Grace, the Duke of Osmonde." I 
should be sorry to record that they are favorites of soci- 
ety. Mrs. Burnett is a great loss, for she was de^ 
servedly a favorite in her simpler work, particularly in 
her recollections. 

But there is still much of the hearty English blood in 
our people demanding amusement, gayety, Maypoles, 
and bear-baiting. We like to burn a few witches occa- 
sionally, "pour passez le temps;" so, in indulging that 
inherited instinct, we read Marie Corelli and Mrs. Ath- 

291 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

erton and Hall Caine. Who reads George Meredith, and 
for what reason, must ever remain a mystery — unless 
people like that which they cannot understand and in 
their secret souls despise. Old Jonathan Mason of 
Massachusetts, one of the most vigorous of thinkers, in 
talking of something which a transcendentalist had put 
forth said: "I can't understand it myself, but my gals 
can." Was there ever a better bit of satire ? 

Rudyard Kipling is sometimes as grand as a forest of 
orchids in one of his own Indian forests, and sometimes 
as trivial as the monkeys and paroquets who jabber in 
the branches of the jungle. He is seldom up to "The 
Jungle Book," which is Homeric. Oh! the wealth 
of Nature and Fancy in that surprising book! He has 
steeped himself in all the wonders of the flowers which 
open under a Southern sun, and in all the most lovable 
of the traits of a gracious spirit, in that book: the dar- 
ling of childhood, the delight of maturity. I am sure 
society reads "The Jungle Book" more than it does 
"Captains Courageous." It is a great thing to write a 
book for a little boy who is just beginning his pilgrimage 
of thought and life. Primitive nature wraps him in 
ecstasy, and the battles of the beasts are to him the bat- 
tles of the gods. No doubt a serious thought regulated 
the great toil of writing this book, but it is a pure out- 
burst of genius. 

Novels of society are the novels which society loves, 
and particularly those of Mrs. Humphrey Ward. "Mar- 
cella" is the queen of them all, and "Sir George Tres- 
sady," which is only "Marcella" continued, is equally 
delightful. Here a lady speaks. She makes no mis- 
takes in describing the great world. Her heroines are 

292 



BOOKS THAT SOCIETY READS 

real. They know their trade, and the men and women 
who are called on to play their part in society are not 
mechanics, servant girls, or horse boys, masquerading. 
Nor has she that socialistic nonsense to promulgate that 
because a man is dirty and badly dressed therefore he is 
a hero ; or that a woman is necessarily lovable because 
she does housework all the time. Labor is sufficiently 
honorable in its own place. It should not be trans- 
planted — not at least until it has washed its hands. 
There have been well-dressed and refined women who 
keep the ten commandments and who knew how to 
spell. Mrs. Ward is a thinker and a philanthropist. 
She also knows society. Therefore she is invaluable. 
And Mrs. Ward shows that a woman can write a society 
novel better than a man can, although Disraeli and some 
others have not botched the work. Certain feelings fol- 
low upon certain positions. People of society like to 
read about society. In fact, who does not? No one 
seeks the commonplace in fiction. We have enough of 
that in every-day life. 

"Defend me," says Lady Eastlake in her admirable 
memoirs, "from your very humble people. They are 
sure to entangle themselves and fall down in their own 
awkward lowmindedness. The consequence is that 
others are at the trouble of picking them up and prop- 
ping them ever after. \ • Again she says : ' • There is a cer- 
tain aggregate ideal of the commonest subject. There is 
an ideal ugliness as well as an ideal beauty. Teniers gave 
us the poetry of pots and pans. Titian, in his old 
nurse, gave ugliness a charm. Hogarth, in his 'Mar- 
riage a la Mode,' lent even to vacancy an interest." 
But it takes a great genius to do these things. An 

293 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

ordinary one had better describe a Grecian vase, a beau- 
tiful woman, and not vacancy, but full, happy, exciting- 
life. Such a novelist and a great favorite is W. E. Nor- 
ris. He did not try for the pomp and solemnity of 
greater novelists, but he has the light, tripping measure, 
the wit and playfulness of the "Midsummer's Night 
Dream." He is a pleasant man with whom to wander 
through an English lane. One would like to meet him 
at every country house. He is a capital interpreter of 
English fashionable society of the better class. He 
seems to attain the beautiful by accident while pursuing; 
the useful and the good on principle. 

Two special powers lead mankind — impulse and ideal : 
the one influencing sensitive, unlettered souls; the other 
governing action and relieving (as all novels should) the 
weary, the disappointed, and the over-worked. The 
first of these divisions leads the "sensitive, unlettered 
souls" to Marie Corelli, Ouida, and Miss Braddon (the 
latter much better than either of the others), and so on. 
The second class turn to Robert Louis Stevenson and 
his followers; to Anthony Hope, to W. Clark Russell, 
to Maarten Maarten, and many others. 

The novel of to-day should be no mere study of char- 
acter, no mere sketch of manners. It should be of con- 
certed movement, dramatic, interesting, alive with the 
play of passion. It should gratify and overcome us. 
Such novels Octave Feuillet wrote, and Victor Cherbu- 
liez — the dear delights; and such a novel, too, is 
"Marcella. " Why should women be ambitious to show 
that they "can do things like men" when they thus 
disregard the fact that they can do much more as 
women ! 

294 



BOOKS THAT SOCIETY READS 

It is a trait of American society that it prefers novels 
written in England and in France to those written on 
this side of the water, and so much do most English- 
speaking readers prefer the French novel that some 
witty essayist said the following good thing of the wholly 
"Depraved Novel Readers": "The modern English- 
man acknowledges that it is almost impossible for a 
Frenchman to write such bad prose as an Englishman 
writes easily and with joy ; that his language helps him 
to that mixture of sobriety, inventiveness, precision, 
wit, and the critical spirit which go to make the most 
perfect prose, and every good French writer clarifies still 
further the clearness of his speech, and gets to that pel- 
lucid simplicity which we love in such writers as Daniel 
Defoe and John Bunyan. The French writer goes the 
whole way. You do not have to laboriously follow him 
to learn what he has to say. The American imitator 
should remember this!" 

Perhaps this was leveled at the head of George Mere- 
dith, and a little at Henry James, who is not always 
pellucid. 

American fashion is very various in its tastes as to 
reading. There are many women of extraordinary talents 
among our highest fashion, and the ardor with which 
the female Americans study, has no rival excepting the 
ardor with which their brothers make money in Wall 
Street or in the wheat deal in Chicago. The same atmos- 
phere is driving the two sexes along. The girls have time 
to study, which the boys have not. However, the great- 
est misfortune which can befall a nation is to grow inert 
and uninterested, and that has not yet befallen ours. 
Better a fleet horse who may stumble and throw one over 

295 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

his head occasionally than a spavined old brute who 
never gets there. 

With all its mistakes, follies, and stupidities, fashion 
never stood higher than it does now. There is in the 
first place a great mania to do good ; the second mania 
is to know something; and the third mania is to throw 
away the bad books which have deluged the land since 
"The Kreutzer Sonata." Fashion is changeable — here 
to-day and gone to-morrow. Fashion in books is like 
fashion in everything else. When Tourguenieff and 
Tolstoi first became the talk of literary men, they were 
found in every boudoir. Just as our mothers read 
George Sand, hiding the offending "Indiana" under a 
crease of the camel' s-hair shawl, so did the wearer of a 
tea-gown hide "The Kreutzer Sonata" under the flow- 
ing pink drapery until the danger grew, and there came 
that embarras des horreurs — the works of Sarah Grand, 
"The Superfluous Woman," and the other nameless 
abominations. This got to be so bad that it speedily 
worked a cure and "The Doll's House" and other 
Ibsenites took their places. Fortunately for fashion a 
stern and vigorous correction to that which not every- 
body could understand, and which a great many did not 
wish to understand followed. The "Quo Vadis" and 
other historical novels by great minds came into being, 
and fashion stood up straighter and breathed deeper. 

One of the best signs of this strong tonic has been the 
horror and disappointment caused by Hall Caine's 
miscalled "Christian," which has been flung down in the 
very dirtiest lane in the neighborhood in disgust by most 
pure-minded women. The dreadful "Jude, the Ob- 
scure," the flippery, vicious tales of refined or coarse 

296 



BOOKS THAT SOCIETY READS 

cruelty, or undisguised indecency, are no longer to be 
found in the ''best society;" and that term means a 
great deal. Society reads and always will read the 
French novels of Pierre Loti, of Paul Bourget; those of 
the saucy "Gyp," because she amuses them. And it 
will read a great many better ones, as "La Morte," 
' 'Sybille, * * ' • Monsieur de Camors, ' ■ and some worse ones, 
for the language and the charm and because a French- 
man knows how to tell a story. The style of a good 
French writer is so fascinating that it is like that airy 
coloring which an Italian atmosphere gives to the bleak- 
est and foulest things. It sets everything in a sea of 
light, and it becomes impossible sometimes for the moral 
sense to discern the boundary line, in that glow which 
wraps heaven and earth, and all things visible, in one 
great world of loveliness. 

It is a part of this charm which recommends the 
faulty and exaggerated Ouida to the reading of society. 
I suppose more copies of her "Massarenes" have been 
read by society than of any other novel of the day, 
partly because the story is about the beloved London, 
partly because it hits on a very evident truth, partly 
because the author's genius carries one along, and per- 
haps because it is a very strong story, although this 
should not perhaps be a reason for reading a work of 
fiction. Fiction should be a life above our every-day 
life; a rainbow glinting the clouds. I regard the lack 
of popularity which exists in society as to Mr. Howell's 
novels as due to the absence of romance. "I am not 
the least interested in his people," said a young fashion- 
able woman to me when I recommended one of his 
books for its humor. 

297 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

The zigzags of fashion are very sharp. No one 
knows when coupes will go out of fashion and when til- 
burys will come in. Therefore it is not to be explained 
why George Meredith disappears before Marie Corelli, 
although it is easy enough to see why some English 
women writers, such as Mrs. Walford, are great favorites. 
Society adores Henry James. His last three novels are 
without any doubt his best and most permanent suc- 
cesses, not alone for their consummate merit as literary 
works, but for their attractive houses, pretty women, 
and general atmosphere of what is most delightful. 
These make him the popular favorite in the home of the 
luxurious. Indeed, it would be impossible at a fashion- 
able dinner party to speak of a character or an episode 
in one of Henry James's novels that every one at the 
table would not know as well whom you meant as if you 
spoke of Becky Sharp or Mr. Micawber. It is the fash- 
ion to read him, as it was the fashion to read "Trilby," 
but that fashion has not lasted to "The Martian." 

Marion Crawford is a firm favorite in the boudoirs. 
And it is an excellent sign of the times that he is. No 
one can wish for a purer hand, a stronger touch, a more 
romantic uplift, or a better friend to a young woman's 
mind than is this delightful writer, who garners in the 
customs and the thoughts of all people and the new and 
precious outlook of foreign lands. His books are full of 
pictures. They are like going from room to room in an 
Italian palace. These rooms of his, instead of ending, 
lead off to other rooms even more richly furnished, each 
more magnificent than the first. Our host is truly en 
Prince , not stopping with his palaces, but giving us 
such queer little journeys into Paul Patoff' s land, and 

298 



BOOKS THAT SOCIETY READS 

that of the "Cigarettemaker," — the latter story one of 
the most original novels ever written. He never fails 
us. 

Society reads a great many memoirs, like W. Frazer 
Rae's "Life of Sheridan," "Two Noble Lives" by 
Hare, and Lady Eastlake's memoirs — the last the most 
delightful of all ; and society reads far too many maga- 
zines and reviews and newspapers and criticisms and 
little books and big books, which are like eating jam 
tarts and cakes, sure to spoil the appetite for dinner. 
Who will ever get time to read Guizot's "History of 
Civilization?" No one, until we are done with civiliza- 
tion. Society reads much of isms, — Buddhism, The- 
osophy, the mind cure, the faith cure ; Socialism and 
Anarchists have a great hearing; and the Indian priests 
are favorites who are doted on. A pale, delicate, lame, 
beautiful Parsee, in white raiment, will be heard and 
read from cover to cover. He can afford to give 
double prayers, double hymns, and double sermons each 
time. If any book can unravel the thread of destiny or 
unroll a scroll of the future, if any one can give a new 
color to the web of life, let him write many books. 
They will all be read in "society." 

The East Indian thinkers, being dyed in the wool, so 
to speak, in all that is most dreamy, spiritual, and the- 
oretical, are especially dear to these dilettante thinkers, 
and more women have committed Richard de Gallienne's 
translation of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam to mem- 
ory since it appeared in the "Cosmopolitan" of Septem- 
ber and subsequent months, than any other poem of the 
day. It reached their "unmentionable sympathies," 
poor things ! 

299 



HERE AND THERE AND EVERYWHERE 

"How easily can sorrows be borne in which there is 
no sin," says the moralist, and how dear is sin which 
has never been committed. A stupid novel does not 
come under any of these heads — -that is a sorrow which 
cannot be borne; and we had not rather, or we would 
rather not, shut out the possibility of evil, perhaps, if 
thereby we must take unmitigated balderdash of virtue 
or the weak milk-and-water of a fashionable novel (so- 
called) done on the spot. As some brilliant wit re- 
marked, "I like to take my metaphysics straight." Nor 
does the novel reader relish those dishonest novels which 
come with a bit of science hidden under their butterfly 
wings. 

The useful novel? Society does not read that much. 
The novel with a purpose? No. Society reads the 
most interesting, — not always the deepest, not always the 
most useful, not always the most congruous; but if 
society reads a book, it has something in it, you may be 
sure of that. Society is interested in dissent as in assent. 
The clergy have no such friends and readers as society 
women. It is the clearest evidence of our belief in an 
infinite future that we are always too interested in those 
who are at hand to read for us the "Book of the Fu- 
ture." 

The extraordinary writing, witty and clever, which 
is such a sign of the times, — that of Anstey and other wits 
across the water, and of Kipling, as he was; or Bret 
Harte, as he was; of Mark Twain, of all men who amuse 
— all this is much read in society. It suits the move- 
ment of the age, racing, golf, tennis, the bicycle. 
Everything but the Book of Psalms has now been put 
on wheels. But there is one thing which is little read 

300 



BOOKS THAT SOCIETY READS 

in society, too, and that is poetry. The thought comes 
over me that this is a lost chord in the fin de siecle ; that 
past when we read Southey, Shelley, Keats, Byron, and 
Walter Scott; that nearer past when we read Lowell, 
Longfellow, and Holmes, Browning and Mrs. Browning, 
George Eliot, and Tennyson — was it not a past when 
the hills were higher, the solitude greater, the heavens 
more blue, and the sunsets more splendid? Did not a 
thousand fantastic shadows visit and veil the horizon, 
making it more beautiful? Have we not hardened a 
little? 



301 



ADVERTISEMENT OF " MENTICULTURE." 

" Menticulture " was first issued in a sufficiently 
modest way. It described a personal experience 
which has been of inestimable value to the author. 
The revelation to him of the possibility of the absolute 
elimination of the seeds of unhappiness has changed 
life from a period of constant struggle to a period of 
security and repose, and has insured delightful real- 
ities instead of uncertain possibilities. One hundred 
and fifty copies of the book were privately printed, 
and entitled "TheAB C of True Living." It also 
carried within its pages the title of " Emancipation." 

The suggestion met with such hearty appreciation 
on the part of personal friends in many various walks 
of life, that a public edition was proposed, and the 
name of "Menticulture," a name that had to be coined 
for the purpose, was chosen for it. 

The aptness of the suggestion has been evidenced 
by the approval of the brotherhood at large by ap- 
preciative notices in many of the leading periodicals 
of the country, by the receipt of more than a thou- 
sand personal letters by the author, many of them at- 
testing to greatest benefits growing out of the new 
point of view of life suggested by the book, and by 
very large sales. 

One gentleman — altruist — whose name is W. J. 
Van Patten, found the suggestion contained in " Men- 
ticulture " so helpful to himself and friends that he 
purchased a special edition of two thousand copies of 
the book for distribution in his home city of Burling- 
ton, Vermont, one to each household, with the idea of 
accentuating the suggestion by widespread inter- 
discussion. The special Burlington edition has an 
inset page bearing Mr. Van Patten's raison d'itre 
for the distribution, which reads as follows: 



PERSONAL NOTE. 

Some time in the early part of the year 1896 a friend 
sent me a copy of " Menticulture." I read it with 
interest, and became convinced that I could apply its 
truths to my own life with profit. Experience con- 
firmed my faith in the power of its principles to over- 
come many of the most annoying and damaging ills 
tbat are common to humanity. 

I procured a number of copies from time to time 
and gave to friends who I felt would appreciate it. 
The universal testimony to the good which the little 
book did, and the new strength of purpose and will it 
gave to some who were sore beset with the cares and 
worries of life, increased my interest and my confi- 
dence in the truths set forth. 

I formed the idea of making an experiment by giv- 
ing the book a general distribution in our city, to see 
if it would not promote the general good and happi- 
ness of people. 

I wrote to the author, Mr. Fletcher, and he entered 
into the plan very cordially, and had this special edi- 
tion prepared for me. The object which we hope to 
gain is to turn the thoughts and purposes of those 
whom we reach to the old truths taught by Christ, and 
a determination to live above those evils which do so 
much to make our lives unhappy for ourselves and 
annoying to those about us. 

I would ask, therefore, that you would kindly give 
the book careful and thoughtful reading, and, when 
you have opportunity, recommend it to your friends. 

W. J. Van Patten. 



PERSONAL NOTE. 

Mr. Van Patten is a prominent manufacturer of 
Vermont, and was recently Mayor of Burlington for 
two years. He is also prominent in the Christian En- 
deavorer movement, having been the first president 
of the United Society, and being at present one of its 
trustees, as well as the president of the Congrega- 
tional Club of western Vermont. 

"Menticulture " has found favor among physicians, 
and also with life-insurance companies, obviously 
because of the live-saving quality of the suggestions 
contained in it. 



THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
HERBERT S. STONE 
& CO. THE CHAP-BOOK 
The HOUSE BEAUTIFUL 




CAXTON BUILDING, CHICAGO 

m FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 

1898 



CAXTON BUILDING, CHICAGO 
III FIFTH AVE., NEW YORK 

THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
HERBERT S. STONE 
& CO. THE CHAP-BOOK 
The HOUSE BEAUTIFUL 



Ade, George. 

Artie : A Story of the Streets and of the 
Town. With many pictures by John T. 
McCutcheon. i6mo. $1.25. 

Ninth thousand. 

" Mr. Ade shows all the qualities of a successful 
novelist." — Chicago Tribune. 

" Artie is a character, and George Ade has 
limned him deftly as well as amusingly. Under 
his rollicking abandon and recklessness we are 
made to feel the real sense and sensitiveness, and 
the worldly wisdom of a youth whose only Ian- 
guage is that of a street-gamin. As a study of the 
peculiar type chosen, it is both typical and inimi- 
table." — Detroit Free Press. 

"It is brim full of fun and picturesque slang. 
Nobody will be any the worse for reading about 
Artie, if he does talk slang. He's a good fellow 
at heart, and Mamie Carroll is the ' making of 
him.' He talks good sense and good morality, and 
these things have n't yet gone out of style, even in 
Chicago." — New Tork Recorder. 



•'Well-meaning admirers have compared Artie 
to Chimmie Fadden, but Mr. Townsend's creation* 
excellent as it is, cannot be said to be entirely free 
from exaggeration. The hand of Chimmie Fad- 
den's maker is to be discerned at times. And just 
here Artie is particularly strong — he is always 
Artie, and Mr. Ade is always concealed, and never 
obtrudes his personality." — Chicago Post. 

" George Ade is a writer, the direct antithesis of 
Stephen Crane. In 'Artie ' he has given the world 
a story of the streets at once wholesome, free, and 
stimulating. The world is filled with people like 
♦Artie ' Blanchard and his ' girl,' ' Mamie ' Carroll, 
and the story of their lives, their hopes, and 
dreams, and loves, is immeasurably more whole- 
some than all the stories like 'George's Mother* 
that could be written by an army of the writers 
who call themselves realists." — Editorial, Albany 
Evening Journal. 



Ade, George. 

Pink Marsh : A Story of the Streets and 
of the Town. With forty full-page pic- 
tures by John T. McCutcheon. i6mo. 
Uniform with Artie. $1.25. 

Fourth thousand. 

"There is, underlying these character sketches, 
a refinement of feeling that wins and retains one's 
admiration." — St. Louis Globe- Democrat. 

"Here is a perfect triumph of characterization. 
* * * Pink must become a household word." — 
Kansas City Star. 

"These sprightly sketches do for the Northern 
town negro what Mr. Joel Chandler Harris's 

3 



'Uncle Remus Papers' have done for the South- 
ern old plantation slave." — The Independent. 

" It is some time since we have met with a more 
amusing character than is ' Pink Marsh,' or to 
give him his full title, William Pinckney Marsh,of 
Chicago. * * * ' Pink' is not the conventional 
'coon 'of the comic paper and the variety hall, 
but a genuine flesh and blood type, presented 
with a good deal of literary and artistic skill." — 
New York Sun. 

" The man who can bring a new type into the 
literature of the day is very near a genius, if he 
does nothing else. For that reason Mr. George 
Ade, the chronicler of 'Artie,' the street boy of 
Chicago, did a rather remarkable thing when he 
put that young man into a book. Now Mr. Ade 
has given us a new character, and to me a much 
more interesting one, because I do not remember 
having met him face to face in literature be- 
fore. — Cincinnati Commercial Tribune. 

Benham, Charles. 

The Fourth Napoleon : A Romance. 
i2mo. #1.50. 

An accurate account of the history of the Fourth 
Napoleon, the coup d?etat which places him on 
the throne of France, the war with Germany, and 
his love intrigues as emperor. A vivid picture of 
contempoi-ary politics in Paris. 

Bickford, L. H. 

(and Richard Stillman Powell.) 
Phyllis in Bohemia. With pictures 
and decorations by Orson Lowell, and 



a cover designed by Frank Hazenplug. 
l6mo. $1.25. 

Sentimental comedy of the lightest kind. It is 
the story of Phyllis leaving Arcadia to find Bohe- 
mia, and of her adventures there. Gentle satire 
of the modern literary and artistic youth and a 
charming love story running through all. 



Blossom, Henry M., Jr. 

Checkers: A Hard '- Luck Story \ By 
the author of " The Documents in Evi- 
dence" i6mo. $1.25. Tenth thousand. 

"Abounds in the most racy and picturesque 
slang." — Ne-w York Recorder. 

"'Checkers' is an interesting and entertaining 
chap, a distinct type, with a separate tongue and a 
way of saying things that is oddly humorous." — 
Chicago Record. 

"If I had to ride from New York to Chicago on 
a slow train, I should like a half dozen books as 
gladsome as 'Checkers,' and I could laugh at the 
trip." — New York Commercial Advertiser. 

"' Checkers ' himself is as distinct a creation as 
Chimmie Fadden, and his racy slang expresses a 
livelier wit. The racing part is clever reporting, 
and as horsey and 'up to date' as any one could 
ask. The slang of the racecourse is caught with 
skill and is vivid and picturesque, and students of 
the byways of language may find some new gems 
of colloquial speech to add to their lexicons." — 
Springfield Republican. 



Bloundelle-Burton, John. 

Across the Salt Seas : A Romance of 
the War of Succession. By the author of 
"In the Day of Adversity ," " The Hispan- 
iola Plate" " A Gentleman Adventurer" 
etc. i2mo. $1.50. 

In " The Hispaniola Plate" Mr. Burton showed 
his familiarity with the stories of the buccaneers 
of the Spanish Main. In this new story there is 
still this picturesque element, although the scene 
is the battle of Vigo and the looting of the Spanish 
galleons. The hero escapes through Spain in an 
attempt to reach Marlborough in Flanders, and 
has many exciting though not improbable adven- 
tures. Any one who cares for good fighting, and 
in whose ears the "sack of Maracaibo" and the 
"fall of Panama" have an alluring sound, will 
like the book. There is also an attractive love 
story in a rather unusual form. 

Chap-Book Essays. 

A Volume of Reprints from the 
Chap - Book. Contributions by T. W. 
Higginson, H. W. Mabie, Louise 
Chandler Moulton, H. H. Boye- 
sen, Edmund Gosse, John Burroughs, 
Norman Hapgood, Mrs. Reginald 
de Koven, Louise Imogen Guiney, 
Lewis E. Gates, Alice Morse Earle, 
Laurence Jerrold, Richard Henry 
Stoddard, Eve Blantyre Simpson, 
6 



and Maurice Thompson, with a cover 
designed by A. E. Borie. i6mo. $1.25. 

Chap-Book Stones. 

A Volume of Reprints from the 

Chap-Book. Contributions by Octave 

Thanet, Grace Ellery Channing, 

Maria Louise Pool, and Others. i6mo. 

$1.25. Second edition . 

The authors of this volume are all American 
Besides the well-known names, there are some 
which were seen in the Chap-Book for the first 
time. The volume is bound in an entirely new 
and startling fashion. 

Chatfield-Taylor, H. C. 

The Land of the Castanet: Span- 
ish Sketches, with twenty -five full-page 
illustrations. i2mo. $1.25. 

"Gives the reader an insight into the life of 
Spain at the present time which he cannot get 
elsewhere." — Cincinnati Commercial Tribicne. 

" Mr. Chatfield-Tavlor's word-painting of special 
events — the bull-fight for instance — is vivid and 
well colored. He gets at the national character 
very well indeed, and we feel that we know our 
Spain better by reason of his handsome little 
book." — Boston Traveler. 

"He writes pleasantly and impartially, and very 
fairly sums up the Spanish character. * * * Mr. 
Taylor's book is well illustrated, and is more read- 
able than the reminiscences of the average globe- 
trotter. "—New Tork Sun. 



Chatfield-Taylor, H. C. 

The Vice of Fools: A Novel of Society 
Life in Washington. By the author or 
" The Land of the Castanet? « Two 
Women and a Fool? tt An American 
Peeress? etc. With ten full page pictures 
by Raymond M. Crosby. i6mo. $1.50. 

The great success of Mr. Chatfield-Taylor's so- 
ciety novels gives assurance of a large sale to this 
new story. It can hardly be denied that few per- 
sons in this country are better qualified to treat 
the " smart set " in various American cities, and 
the life in diplomatic circles offers an unusually 
picturesque opportunity. 

D'Annunzio, Gabriele. 

Episcopo and Company. Translated 
by Myrta Leonora Jones. i6mo. $1.25. 

Third edition. 

Gabriele d'Annunzio is the best known and 
most gifted of modern Italian novelists. His work 
is making a great sensation at present in all lite- 
rary circles. The translation now offered gave 
the first opportunity English-speaking readers 
had to know him in their own language. 

De Fontenoy, The Marquise. 

Eve's Glossary. By the author of "Queer 
Sprigs of Gentility? with decorations in 
two colors by Frank Hazenplug. fto. 

#3.50. 

8 



An amusing volume of gossip and advice for 
gentlewomen. It treats of health, costume, and 
entertainments; exemplifies by reference to noted 
beauties of England and the Continent; and is 
embellished with decorative borders of great 
charm. 



Earle, Alice Morse. 

Curious Punishments of Bygone 
Days, with twelve quaint pictures and a 
cover design hy Frank Hazenplug. 
i2mo. $1.50. 

"In this dainty little volume Alice Morse Earle 
has done a real service, not only to present read- 
ers, but to future students of bygone customs. To 
come upon all the information that is here put 
into readable shape, one would be obliged to search 
through many ancient and cumbrous records." — 
Boston Transcript. 

" Mrs. Alice Morse Earle has made a diverting 
and edifying book in her ' Curious Punishments 
of Bygone Days,' which is published in a style of 
quaintness befitting the theme." — Neiv Tork 
Tribune. 

"This light and entertaining volume is the most 
recent of Mrs.Earle's popular antiquarian sketches, 
and will not fail to amuse and mildly instruct 
readers who love to recall the grim furnishings and 
habits of previous centuries, without too much 
serious consideration of the root from which they 
sprang, the circumstances in which they flour- 
ished, or the uses they served." — The Independent, 



Embree, Charles Fleming. 

For the Love of Tonita, and Other 
Tales of the Mesas. With a cover 
designed by Fernand Lungren. i6mo. 

$1.25- 

Characteristic and breezy stories of the South- 
west, by a new author. Full of romantic interest 
and with an unusually humorous turn. The book 
coming from a new writer, is likely to be a real 
surprise. The cover is an entirely new experi- 
ment in bookbinding. 

Fletcher, Horace. 

Happiness as found in Forethought 
minus fearthought, and other 
Suggestions in Menticulture. i2mo. 
£i.oo. 

The enormous popularity of Mr. Fletcher's 
simple philosophy, as shown in the sale of his 
first volume, " Menticulture " is a sufficient evi- 
dence of the prospects of the new book. In it he 
develops further the ideas of menticulture, and 
urges with energy and directness his plea for the 
avoidance of worry. 

Fletcher, Horace. 

Menticulture : or the A-B-C of True 
Living. i2mo. $1.00. 

Nineteenth thousand. 

Transferred by the author to the present publishers, 
IO 



Gordon, Julien 

Eat Not Thy Heart : A NoveL By 
the author of"A Diplomat's Diary " etc, 
l6mo, $1.25. 

Life on Long Island at a luxurious country 
place, is the setting for this story, and Mrs. 
Cruger's dialogue is as crisp, as witty, as satirical 
of the foibles of fashionable life as ever. She has 
tried a new experiment, however, in making a 
study of a humbler type, the farmer's wife, and 
her ineffectual jealousy of the rich city people. 

Hapgood, Norman. 

Literary Statesmen and Others. 
A book of essays on men seen from a distance, 
l2mo. $1.50. 

Essays from one of our younger writers, who is 
already well known as a man of promise, and who 
has been given the unusual distinction of starting 
his career by unqualified acceptance from the En- 
glish reviews. Scholarly, incisive, and thought- 
ful essays which will be a valuable contribution to 
contemporary criticism. 



Hichens, Robert. 

Flames : A NoveL By the author of u A 
Green Carnation,," " An Imaginative 
Man," " The Folly of Eustace," etc., with 
a cover design by F. R. Kimbrough. 
l2mo. $1.50. Second edition. 



" The book is sure to be widely read." — Buffalo 
Commercial. 

"It carries on the attention of the reader from 
the first chapter to the last. Full of exciting in- 
cidents, very modern, excessively up to date." — 
London Daily Telegraph. 

" In his last book Mr. Hichens has entirely 
proved himself. His talent does not so much lie 
in the conventional novel, but more in hisstrange 
and fantastic medium. * Flames ' suits him, has 
him at his best." — Pall Mall Gazette. 

" ' Flames,* " says the London Chronicle, in a long 
editorial on the story, "is a cunning blend of the 
romantic and the real, the work of a man who can 
observe, who can think, who can imagine, and who 
can write." 

"'Flames' is a powerful story, not only for the 
novelty of its plot, but for the skill with which it 
is worked out, the brilliancy of its descriptions of 
the London streets, of the seamy side of the city's 
life which night turns to the beholder; but the 
descriptions are neither erotic nor morbid. * * * 
We may repudiate the central idea of soul-trans- 
ference, but the theory is made the vehicle of 
this striking tale in a manner that is entirely sane 
and wholesome. It leaves no bad taste in the 
mouth. * * * 'Flames' — it is the author's 
fancy that the soul is like a little flame, and hence 
the title — must be read wich care. There is much 
brilliant epigrammatic writing in it that will 
delight the literary palate. It is far and away 
ahead of anything that Mr. Hichens has ever writ- 
ten before." — Brooklyn Eagle. 

James, Henry. 

What Maisie Knew : A novel. i2mo. 
$1,50. 

12 



The publication of a new novel — one quite un- 
like his previous work — by Mr. Henry James, 
cannot fail to be an event of considerable literary 
importance. During its appearance in the Chap- 
Booh, the story has been a delight to many read- 
ers. As the first study of child-life which Mr. 
James has ever attempted, it is worth the attention 
of all persons interested in English and American 
letters. 

Kinross, Albert. 

The Fearsome Island ; Being a mod- 
ern rendering of the narrative of one 
Silas Fordred, Master Mariner of Hythe, 
whose shipwreck and subsequent adventures 
are herein set forth. Also an appendix, 
accounting, in a rational manner, for the 
seeming marvels that Silas Fordred en- 
countered during his sojourn on the fearsome 
island of Don Diego Rodriguez. With a 
cover designed by Frank Hazenplug. 
l6mo. $1.25. 

Le Gallienne, Richard. 

Prose Fancies : Second series. By the 
author of " The Book-Bills of Narcissus" 
"The §)uest of the Golden Girl," etc. 
With a cover designed by Frank Hazen- 
plug. l6mo. $1.25. Second edition. 

"In these days of Beardsley pictures and deca- 
dent novels, it is good to find a book as sweet, as 



pure, as delicate as Mr. Le Gallienne's." — New 
Orleans Picayune. 

"'Prose Fancies' ought to be in every one's 
summer library, for it is just the kind of a book 
one loves to take to some secluded spot to read 
and dream over." — Kansas City Times. 

" There are witty bits of sayings by the score, 
and sometimes whole paragraphs of nothing but 
wit. Somewhere there is a little skit about ' Scot- 
land, the country that takes its name from the 
whisky made there'; and the transposed proverbs, 
like ' It is an ill wind for the shorn lamb,' and 
' Many rise on the stepping-stones of their dead 
relations,' are brilliant. 'Most of us would never 
be heard of were it not for our enemies,' is a cap- 
ital epigram." — Chicago Times- Herald. 

"Mr. Le Gallienneis first of alia poet, and these 
little essays, which savor somewhat of Lamb, of 
Montaigne, of Lang, and of Birrell, are larded 
with verse of exquisite grace. He rarely ventures 
into the grotesque, but his fancy follows fair 
paths; a certain quaintness of expression and the 
idyllic atmosphere of the book charm one at the 
beginning and carry one through the nineteen 
'fancies' that comprise the volume." — Chicago 
Record. 

Magruder, Julia. 

Miss Ayr of Virginia, and Other 

Stories. By the author of "The Princess 

Soma," " The Violet," etc. With a 

cover-design by F. R. Kimbrough. i6mo. 

#1.25. 

"By means of original incident and keen por- 
traiture, ' Miss Ayr of Virginia, and Other Stories,' 



is made a decidedly readable collection. In the 
initial tale the character of the young Southern 
girl is especially well drawn; Miss Magruder's 
most artistic work, however, is found at the end 
of the volume, under the title * Once More.'" — The 
Outlook. 

"The contents of 'Miss Ayr of Virginia' are not 
less fascinating than the cover. * * * These 
tales * * * are a delightful diversion for a 
spare hour. They are dreamy without being can- 
didly realistic, and are absolutely refreshing in 
the simplicity of the author's style." — Boston 
Herald. 

"Julia Magruder's stories are so good that one 
feels like reading passages here and there again 
and again. In the collection, • Miss Ayr of Vir- 
ginia, and other stories,' she is at her best, and 
'Miss Ayr of Virginia,' has all the daintiness, the 
point and pith and charm which the author so 
well commands. The portraiture of a sweet, un- 
sophisticated, pretty, smart Southern girl is be- 
witching." — Minneapolis Times. 

Malet, Lucas. 

The Carissima : A modern grotesque. 
By the author of « The Wages of Sin? 
etc. i2mo. $1.50. Second edition. 

*^,*This is the first novel which Lucas Malet 
has written since "The Wages of Sin." 

"The strongest piece of fiction written during 
the year, barring only the masters, Meredith and 
Thomas Hardy." — Kansas City Star. 

"There are no dull pages in 'The Carissima,' no 
perfunctory people. Every character that goes in 
and out on the mimic stage is fully rounded, and 
the central one provokes curiosity, like those of 

15 



that Sphinx among novelists, Mr. Henry James. 
Lucas Malet has caught the very trick of James's 
manner, and the likeness presses more than 
once." — Milwaukee Sentinel. 

"The interest throughout the story is intense 
and perfectly sustained. The character-drawing 
is as good as it can be. The Carissima, her father, 
and a journalistic admirer are, in particular, abso- 
lute triumphs. The book is wonderfully witty, 
and has touches of genuine pathos, more than two 
and more than three. It is much better than any- 
thing else we have seen from the same hand." — 
Pall Mall Gazette. 

"Lucas Malet has insight, strength, the gift of 
satire, and a captivating brilliance of touch; in 
short, a literary equipment such as not too many 
present-day novelists are possessed of." — London 
Daily Mail. 

" We cannot think of readers as skipping a line 
or failing to admire the workmanship, or to be 
deeply interested, both in the characters and the 
plot. ' Carissima' is likely to add to the reputa- 
tion of the author of « The Wages of Sin.' "—Glas- 
gow Herald. 

Merrick, Leonard. 

One Man's View. By the author of 
U J Daughter of the Philistines" etc. 
i6mo. #1.00. 

The story of an ambitious American girJ and 
her attempts to get on the English stage, her mar- 
riage and subsequent troubles, and the final hap- 
piness of every one. The author's point of view 
and the story itself are unusual and interesting. 

" Very well told."— The Outlook. 
16 



"Clever and original." — Charleston News and 
Courier. 

" Eminently readable." — New Orleans Times- 
Democrat. 

" A highly emotional, sensational story of much 
literary merit." — Chicago Inter Ocean. 

"A novel over which we could fancy ourselves 
sitting up till the small hours." — London Daily 
Chronicle. 

" A really remarkable piece of fiction * * * 
a saving defense against dullness that may come 
in vacation times." — Kansas City Star. 

Moore, F. Frankfort. 

The Impudent Comedian and 
Others. Illustrated. i2mo. $1.50. 

" Several of the stories have appeared in the 
Chap-Book; others are now published for the first 
time. They all relate to seventeenth and eigh- 
teenth century characters — Nell Gwynn, Kitty 
Clive, Oliver Goldsmith, Dr. Johnson, and David 
Garrick. They are bright, witty, and dramatic. 

"Capital short stories." — Brooklyn Eagle. 

" A thing of joy." — Buffalo Express. 

"The person who has a proper eye to the artis- 
tic in fiction will possess them ere another day shall 
dawn." — Scranton Tribune. 

"Full of the mannerisms of the stage and thor- 
oughly Bohemian in atmosphere." — Boston Herald. 

"The celebrated actresses whom he takes for 
his heroines sparkle with feminine liveliness of 
mind." — New Tork Tribune. 

" A collection of short stories which has a flash 
of the picturesqueness, the repartee, the dazzle of 



the age of Garrick and Goldsmith, of Peg Wof- 
fington and Kitty Clive." — Hartford Courant. 

"The stories are well conceived and amusing, 
bearing upon every page the impress of an inti- 
mate study of the fascinating period wherein they 
are laid."— The Dial. 

"Mr. F. Frankfort Moore had a capital idea 
when he undertook to throw into story form some 
of the traditional incidents of the history of the 
stage in its earlier English days. Nell Gwynn, 
Kitty Clive, Mrs. Siddons, Mrs. Abington, and 
others are cleverly depicted, with much of the 
swagger and flavor of their times." — The Outlook. 

Moore, F. Frankfort. 

The Jessamy Bride : A Novel. By 
the author of" The Impudent Comedian ." 
I2mo. #1.50. 

A novel of great interest, introducing as its 
chief characters Goldsmith, Johnson, Garrick, 
Sir Joshua Reynolds, and others. It is really a 
companion volume to "The Impudent Comedian." 
The first large English edition of "The Jessamy 
Bride " was exhausted before publication. The 
great popularity of his other books is sufficient 
guaranty of the entertaining qualities of this latest 
volume. 

"Admirably done." — Detroit Free Press. 

"It is doubtful if anything he has written will 
be as well and aL widely appreciated as 'The 
Jessamy Bride.' " — Kansas City Times. 

"This story seems to me the strongest and sin- 
cerest bit of fiction I have read since ' Quo 
Vadis.' " — George Merriam Hyde in The Book 
Buyer. 

18 



"A novel in praise of the most lovable of men 
of letters, not even excepting Charles Lamb, must 
be welcome, though in it the romance of Gold- 
smith's life may be made a little too much of for 
strict truth * * * Mr. Moore has the history 
of the time and of the special circle at his finger- 
ends. .He has lived in its atmosphere, and his 
transcripts are full of vivacity. * * * ' The 
Jessamy Bride ' is a very good story, and Mr, 
Moore has never written anything else so chival- 
rous to man or woman." — The Bookman. 

Morrison, Arthur. 

A Child of the Jago. By the author 
of " Tales of Mean Streets. 1 ' i2mo. 
$1.50. Second edition. 

"The book is a masterpiece." — Pall Mall Gazette. 

"The unerring touch of a great artist." — London 
Daily Graphic. 

11 Told with great vigour and powerful simplic- 
ity." — Athenaeum. 

"Remarkable power, and even more remarka- 
ble restraint." — London Daily Mail. 

"A novel that will rank alone as a picture of 
low-class London life." — New Saturday. 

"The power and art of the book are beyond 
question." — Hartford Courant. 

"It is one of the most notable books of the 
year." — Chicago Daily News. 

•"A Child of the Jago 'will prove one of the 
immediate and great successes of the season." — 
Boston Times. 

"The description of the great fight between 
Josh Perrott and Billy Leary is a masterpiece." 
— Punch. 



"Never, certainly, a book with such a scene on 
which so much artistic care has been lavished. 
* * The reader has no choice but to be con- 
vinced." — Review of Reviews. 

" Mr. ArthurMorrison has already distinguished 
himself (in his Tales of Mean Streets) as a deline- 
ator of the lives of the East - end poor, but his 
present book takes a deeper hold on us." — London 
Times. 

"Is indeed indisputably one of the most inter- 
esting novels this year has produced. * * One 
of those rare and satisfactory novels in which 
almost every sentence has its share in the entire 
design." — Saturday Review. 

" Since Daniel Defoe, no such consummate 
master of realistic fiction has arisen among us as 
Mr. Arthur Morrison. Hardly any praise could 
be too much for the imaginative power and artis- 
tic perfection and beauty of this picture of the de- 
praved and loathsome phases of human life. 
There is all of Defoe's fidelity of realistic detail, 
suffused with the light and warmth of a genius 
higher and purer than Defoe's." — Scotsman. 

"It more than fulfills the promise of 'Tales of 
Mean Streets ' — it makes you confident that Mr. 
Morrison has yet better work to do. The power 
displayed is magnificent, and the episode of the 
murder of Weech, « fence ' and « nark,' and of the 
capture and trial of his murderer, is one that 
stamps itself upon the memory as a thing done 
once and for all. Perrott in the dock, or as he 
awaits the executioner, is a fit companion of Fagin 
condemned. The book cannot but confirm the 
admirers of Mr. Morrison's remarkable talent in 
the opinions they formed on reading ' Tales of 
Mean Streets.' "—Black and White. 

20 



Powell, Richard Stillman. 
(See Bickford, L. H.) 

Pritchard, Martin J. 

Without Sin: A novel. i2mo. #'1.50. 

Third edition. 

*^*The New York Journal gave a half-page 
review of the book and proclaimed it " the most 
startling novel jet." 

"Abounds in situations of thrilling interest. A 
unique and daring book." — Review of Reviews 
(London). 

"One is hardly likely to go far wrong in pre- 
dicting that ' Without Sin' will attract abundant 
notice. Too much can scarcely be said in praise 
of Mr. Pritchard's treatment of his subject." — 
Academy. 

"The very ingenious way in which improbable 
incidents are made to appear natural, the ingenious 
manner in which the story is sustained to the end, 
the undoubted fascination of the writing and the 
convincing charm of the principal characters, are 
just what make this novel so deeply dangerous 
while so intensely interesting." — The World 
(London). 

Pool,* Maria Louise. 

In Buncombe County. i6mo. $1.25. 

Second edition. 

" ( In Buncombe County ' is bubbling over with 
merriment — one could not be blue with such a 
companion for an hour." — Boston Times. 



44 Maria Louise Pool is a joy forever, principally 
because she so nobly disproves the lurking theory 
that women are born destitute of humor. Hers is 
not acquired; it is the real thing. 4 In Buncombe 
County' is perfect with its quiet appreciation of 
the humorous side of the everyday affairs of life." 
— Chicago Daily News. 

"It is brimming over with humor, and the 
reader who can follow the fortunes of the redbird 
alone, who flutters through the first few chapters, 
and not be moved to long laughter, must be sadly 
insensitive. But laugh as he may, he will always 
revert to the graver vein which unobtrusively 
runs from the first to the last page in the book. 
He will lay down the narrative of almost gro- 
tesque adventure with a keen remembrance of its 
tenderness and pathos." — New York Tribune. 

Raimond, C. E. 

The Fatal Gift of Beauty, and 
Other Stories. By the Author of 
u George Mandeville 's Husband" etc, 
l6mo. $1.25. 

A book of stories which will not quickly be sur- 
passed for real humor, skillful characterization 
and splendid entertainment. "The Confessions 
of a Cruel Mistress " is a masterpiece, and the 
" Portman Memoirs" exceptionally clever* 

Rossetti, Christina. 

Maude : Prose and Verse. With a pref- 
ace by William Michael Rossetti. l6mo. 
$1.00. 

22 



THE CHAP-BOOK 

A Semi-Monthly Miscellany and Review of Belles-Lettres. Price, 10 
cents a copy; $2.00 a year. 

"The Chap-Book is indispensable. In its new form, as a literary re- 
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Post-Express. 

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the excellence of its book reviews. Of course it has other features of interest 
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structed and entertained. Whoever they are that produce this copy — and 
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— Scranton Tribune. 

THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL 

A Monthly Magazine devoted to Houses and Homes. Articles on Rugs, 
Furniture, Pottery, Silverware, and Bookbindings; Prints, Engravings, and 
Etchings; Interior and Exterior Decoration, etc. Abundantly illustrated. 
It is a magazine of general interest, and appreciative rather than technical 
in character. 10 cents a copy; $1.00 a year. Sample copies sent for five 
two -cent stamps. 

" The House Beautiful, for its sincerity of purpose and dignified ful- 
filment of its aim, so far, should be highly commended, The third number 
contains some exquisite illustrations. * * Some good reviews and 
notes follow the articles, and a really useful magazine, in a fair way to be- 
come well established, is thus kept on its course." — Chicago Times-Herald. 
" Throughout, this magazine is governed by good taste to a degree which 
is almost unique." — Indianapolis News. 

" There is room for a magazine )ike The House Beautiful, and the 
third number of that excellent monthly indicates that the void is in a fair 
way to be filled. In addition to a good assortment of articles on practical 
questions of household art and artisanship, there is a valuable paper by W. 
Irving Way on 'Women and Bookbinding'." — Chicago Tribune. 

" The House Beautiful is the title of the new monthly which deals 
principally with art as applied to industry and the household. * * It 
seems to be a magazine which will have a permanent use and interest." — 
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